


my cup runneth over

by gleed



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death, Dog is here, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, also Dog, also Hawke is an actual literal lumberjack, and he's adorable, and i love him for it, because i am an artist but also a huge art nerd, carver and bethany are here too but not frequently enough to be counted, in general tbh, lots of referencing to art and artists, non-con is only spoken of but never graphically written, plus: Fenris is the world's biggest pothead, references to animal death, references to past abuse, unapologetically a total stoner
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gleed/pseuds/gleed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Discontinued lmao</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lamb

Kirkwall in November was a hard, rain damp corner of the world that felt like it could dilute the misery out of you drop by drop. With every footstep on wet ground, the greyness bled out into the world – darkening the skies and making the rain just that slight bit colder, sharper. There were no golden fringes of autumn bound trees, or floors littered with leaf rot and its dull, lingering odour. Pine and krummholz lined the town, moving like water in a gentle flow from the outskirts and further into the moist suburbs. Kirkwall was thrown in a loop, stuck in a constant wintry glaze of grey and green. The most colour to be seen was the pale orange reflection of streetlamps on the glistening pavements and roads.

A rickety old Sedan Station Wagon waited in the onslaught of rain, icy sheets falling in quick succession to each other. The green paint peeled from the car in long licks, and in the wind they threatened almost to dislodge completely – fly away in a drift of flakes. The headlights turned on, two bright white cones reaching through the greyness, as the ignition spluttered into life. The old car coughed and wheezed in a pitiable way, creaking on its own narrow wheels.

Hawke waited for a second, his eyes on the stationary car, the windscreen wipers flying back and forth over the glass. The bus-stop was leaky and provided bare shelter, but he was reluctant to move from beneath the shadow to check the unfamiliar car.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

**Isabela (17:27)**

**its me in the sedan. xxx**

Hawke covered his head with his arms, running out into the rain as it lashed down unforgivingly on his shoulders. He ducked into the car as fast as he could force himself into such a tight space. His jeans and shirt were studded with dark circles by the time he settled.

“New car?” he asked, pulling his seatbelt over as he watched Isabela fleetingly check her reflection in the mirror before putting the car into gear.

“Oh God no, have you seen this thing? I didn’t have time to fill up on petrol, I’m borrowing from a friend; I would never drive this by choice.” She checked the road briefly before pulling out, her gaze flicking to Hawke’s knees pressed up against the dash board. “I know it’s a tight fit but don’t push the chair back, kitten. I tried to move mine around earlier and it locked up. I was worried I’d broken my friend’s car. Anyway, how was work?”

“Same old.” Hawke shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a vain attempt to not smear mud and soil all over a stranger’s car mat. “Not much changes when you chop wood for a living, Isabela.”

“Well, it was worth asking.” Isabela said, “Manners maketh man.”

“My mother says that.”

“Your mother taught me that.”

The Sedan rumbled on for a few minutes, groaning at every pothole, threatening to splinter as the rain continued to wage war on it. Hawke ran his fingers over the seat, cold and slightly damp, as if the rain was somehow permeating the metal. He rested his head far back on his seat and watched the windscreen wipers squeak back and forth.

“Do you want me to drop you home so you can get changed or are you fine in that?” Isabela asked as they neared the turning towards Hawke’s street, “Personally I’d get dressed into something more appropriate for a night out but if you’re fine looking like a sad, homeless lumberjack then I’ll simply have to deal with your poor fashion sense.”

Hawke glanced over himself – a tight, stained V-neck that barely held in his chest, an equally as shabby flannel shirt that clung hopelessly to his shoulders, mud streaked jeans, and soaked through work boots. He then looked at Isabela – typically glamorous, figure hugging black skirt that slit near the thigh, flattering white blouse with a pirate-like ruffle at the collar, a leather jacket festooned with unconventionally placed golden zips, and black suede heels.

“If I go out looking like this next to you people _will_ think I’m a sad, homeless lumberjack.” Hawke laughed as Isabela made the turning towards his house before he’d even finished his answer, “Just give me a couple minutes and I’ll get into something nicer.”

Isabela parked neatly in between Hawke’s own car – a rundown but well-loved red Ford – and the dented, battered trailer of his neighbour. Hawke thanked her for being so patient before leaping out of the car, running to his door and shoving the keys in whilst the rain continued to reign terror down on his hair.

He flung his boots off and thundered up to his bedroom in double time, stripping off his layers and bunging them in the washing basket. Dog barked insistently from where he lay on the bed as Hawke slammed the door,

“Shush!” he tapped Dog on the nose as he passed.

Hawke realised he still smelt like the lumberyard – moist soil and tree sap – but he decided against putting on more deodorant, thinking that the forest-like scent gave an added charm. He stood feeling rather cold in his underwear for a good while before he actually found something wearable inside his wardrobe. He pulled on his clothes hastily, looking himself down in the mirror to adjudicate his decisions:  black jeans, brogue shoes, beige linen shirt, large brown sweater. He nodded approvingly to himself before rubbing his still damp hair in a stray towel, grabbing his coat from the hook on his door and clattering back downstairs again.

Isabela’s face was illuminated by a soft white glow by the time he got back in the stranger’s car, her fingers flying at lightning speed over the phone keypad.

“You text faster than I can blink.” Hawke said as he buckled himself in.

“Maybe not quite that fast, but definitely faster than you can dress yourself.”

“Ouch.”

“You needed that, tiger.”

“I did.”

When Isabela pulled into the car park of The Hanged Man, Hawke already had three teasing texts from Varric and a “Where are you?” from Aveline.

**Varric (17:56)**

**Has Isabela driven you into a ditch**

**Varric (17:58)**

**That’s not even her car**

**Varric (17:58)**

**Ah nevermind I can see you now ;)**

“Apologies all, Hawke was holding as all up once more with his picky dress sense.” Isabela chuckled as she pulled out a chair and reached for the bottle of rum Varric had already ordered for her.

“Ah yes, Hawke the fashion guru, can’t afford to upset his fans, now can he?” Varric pushed a pint of Kirkwall Black – the bitter swill that The Hanged Man tried to pass off as quality beer – toward Hawke with a sly grin.

“It was either this or a full body mud mask, I know what you’d have preferred Varric.” Hawke took a sip from the glass, grimacing at the initial hit of the beer, but feeling it sweeten as it covered the roof of his mouth.

“Well I think you look very nice, Hawke.” Merrill called from across the table where she’d just finished taking a picture – for Instagram, no doubt - of her tea and packet of salt and vinegar crisps. Only Merrill could go to a pub and be happy drinking tea for the entire night. Aveline was sat next to Merrill, eyeing her phone screen carefully as the smaller girl tapped away furiously.

“Thank you, Merrill.”

“You’re not in too much trouble, beardy.” Varric chuckled as he took a sip from his own drink, “Aveline was late too. Not to mention Blondie isn’t even off work yet. And then there’s Isabela’s friend who is yet to arrive.”

“He texted me earlier saying that he may be a little late.” Isabela said, “He’s staying in a motel whilst he’s visiting and he has to walk since I borrowed his car to get here.”

“He’s walking in this weather?” Aveline peered sceptically through the window beside their table, translucent with thick ripples of rainwater over the glass.

“He’s a tough little thing.” Isabela replied.

“Who is this friend of yours, by the way?” Hawke set his beer down on a coaster, afraid that if he drunk anymore he’d get too eager and it would make his beard sticky for the rest of the night. “I’ve been in his car now and most probably smell a bit like the seats, I find it kind of odd that I don’t actually know who this guy is.”

Isabela folded her hands together in her lap, pointing her chin out in a proud way before saying simply,

“His name’s Fenris. We were friends in college. Good friends, actually. We met at an awful house party – I was very drunk, he was very high, we were practically besties by the time we left the place.”

“Didn’t you go to art school, Isabela?” Merrill asked curiously, slipping her phone back into the pocket of her very seasonally inappropriate floral skirt.

“An eccentric one at that.” Aveline added in an off-handed sneer.

“Yes, I was taking fashion design and he was studying painting and drawing. He majored in both I think.”

“Fenris is a peculiar name. Quite a pretty one though.” Hawke said through a thoughtful finger pressed to his lips.

“Well it fits him perfectly then.” Isabela cackles, “Peculiar but pretty.”

Varric quickly pulled a small notepad from his messenger bag slung over the back of his chair, taking the pen that he hid discreetly behind one ear and began scrawling on the paper.

“Alright Bela, now you’ve peaked my interest. This guy sounds interesting.” He said as he jotted a hasty bullet list, “He went to art school. He’s kind of weird but also kind of attractive. He smokes weed. Seems like the kind of guy I could write a novella or two about.”

“Oh, he’d _kill_ you if you ever wrote anything about him.” Isabela leant against the table, resting her chin in her hands as she looked wistfully towards the ceiling, her eyes not really focusing on anything there. Unless the odd mould stain just above the bar counted. “He’s talented and attractive and honestly a good friend but he’s self-depreciative to the moon and back. He’s reluctant to admit that he has any alluring qualities and if you so much as suggest that he does he’ll probably explode. Writing about him is a no go.” She hesitated for a second, but her lips broke into a faltering grin, “But you should definitely do it anyway.”

A soft buzzing noise emanated from Isabela’s jacket, and she fished her phone out of her pocket and regarded the screen with a delighted smile.

“He’s here!” she almost squealed.

The door beside the bar swung open with a biting gust of wind and a slight spray of rain, almost as though God had blown it open with a wet sigh.

A man of slight build stood in the doorway, shaking off his umbrella with a vindictive pull to his curled lip. He kicked the door closed with his heel, searched the pub with a hesitant yet solid stare. Silvery droplets of rain clung to the felt of his black duffle coat, and he shrugged it off with a confident carelessness that had Hawke’s gaze stuck to him.

“Fenris!” Isabela waved excitedly from their table, calling him over with a barrage euphoric giggles and greetings. She stood as he neared the table, hugging him in an affectionate manner that Isabela offered few people. He was maybe two or three inches taller than Isabela when she was in heels, but Hawke could tell that if he stood Fenris would be more than half a foot shorter than him.

Hawke realised that that was a slightly odd thing to think about a person.

Hawke also realised that he was probably paying too much attention to this stranger – this ravishingly _attractive_ stranger.

He looked like he’d been pulled from the front cover of Vogue, with dusky skin and hard features, cheek bones high and hollow and a jawline that you could cut diamonds with. His hair was bleached and fell in fine sweeps over his face, carelessly ruffled to the point of what seemed like a purposefully messy look. Hawke couldn’t quite put his finger on it – whether this guy was attractive because he put effort into his appearance or just naturally looked good.

When he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelling and throwing it into a still _painfully_ good looking disarray, Hawke decided that he honestly was just a natural beauty.

He didn’t notice the tattoos until Isabela pulled out of the hug, gesturing widely to Fenris as she introduced him to the group.

“This is Fenris, everybody!” she grinned, but Hawke could barely listen to whatever she was saying.

He’d seen white tattoos before, but they’d always looked sort of faded, like old, puckered scars or birthmarks. Fenris had them on his neck and chin, seemingly spilling from the corners of his lips and into an antler like splay over his throat. Hawke could only hope that they continued down below his collar.

Hawke came back to earth only just in time to see the group introducing themselves.

Varric was pointing good-naturedly at Fenris, smirking.

“What’s goin’ on here buddy?”

Fenris looked down to where Varric was pointing. His shirt was hanging from his frame in an almost wilted way, the sad pinstripes following a uniform line down his chest. One side of his shirt was tucked in, the other hung loose.

“Oh, yes.” Fenris coughed self-consciously, pulling the shirt free and taking a seat beside Isabela, who was busily handing him a menu and informing him on how positively _awful_ everything that they served here was, but how it was still kind of good in a slightly over-cooked, dripping with grease kind of way.

Hawke was unable to take his eyes off of Fenris.

He left the spinning void of universal transcendence when Varric elbowed him in the ribs, hissing,

“Hey, buddy what do you want to eat?”

“Um,” Hawke scrabbled for a menu, clutching it with a ferocity that turned his fingertips white. Varric raised an eyebrow. “Gammon and egg, please. With peas.”

Hawke screamed internally at the way his voice came out like a piglet being squeezed.

Isabela chuckled and collected in the menus, noting softly to Fenris,

“He always gets gammon because it sounds like his name.”

Following Varric’s lead, Fenris cocked an eyebrow.

“Gammon. Garrett. Practically the same word.” Varric said with a smugness that made Hawke’s insides knot together. Hawke scowled in Varric’s direction.

“Oh come on now,” Isabela teased, “Let’s not embarrass Hawke in front of new friends.”

“I agree.” Merrill said, “Hawke always seems very awkward when making new friends. I think we should be helping him rather than making fun of him.”

Hawke wanted to head-butt the table.

He instead settled for intense, inside the mouth groaning – eliciting laughs from Varric and Aveline and an endeared smile from Isabela.

“Oh, did I say something wrong.”

“Nothing wrong at all, Daisy.” Varric patted Merrill on the back.

“Okay, so, Hawke wants gammon; Varric wants spaghetti Bolognese; Aveline wants the chicken breast; Merrill wants rare steak; Fenris is having rice and chicken; and _I_ will be having smoked salmon on crackers.” Isabela proudly asserted her apparent excellent memory before looking to Fenris, “Oh, I never got you a drink, did I. What would you like? You still like wine, don’t you?”

“Red wine will be fine, thank you, Isabela.”

“Are we not waiting for Anders to get here?” Hawke asked, raising his hand slightly as if talking to a teacher in class. “It seems a bit unfair to order dinner without him.”

“Well, if you hadn’t fallen asleep with your eyes open earlier you would have heard that Anders texted me to say he couldn’t make it tonight.” Aveline said, taking a resigned sip from her pint, “He said it was far too busy at the hospital today. He just wanted to get home.”

“Oh, alright.” Hawke watched as Isabela walked to the bar to order their meals.

“Can you really sleep with your eyes open, Hawke?”

“No, Merrill.”

The group fell into pleasant chatter as Isabela returned, toting with her a full glass of red wine. She sat beside Fenris to catch up with him, reminisce on their times together as college students. Hawke could hear Varric talking beside him, but his voice was a dull buzz at the back of his head. He was glued to Fenris and Isabela, talking softly in the dim light of the pub, smiling easily and laughing quietly every now and then.

“What are you staring at, Hawke?” Merrill said from across the table, leaning over to tap him on the forearm.

All eyes moved to Hawke, who suddenly felt like throwing himself out of the window behind Aveline.

“Um.” Hawke’s throat felt like it was expanding, caving in on itself and cutting off any chance of ever breathing again –

“Oh don’t be silly, Merrill, we all know sometimes Hawke drifts off into his own world.” Isabela is a godsend. “You’ve actually been rather quiet tonight, kitten. Anything you want to talk about?”

Isabela winked. Hawke wasn’t sure what that meant, other than she was saving his bacon.

“Uh, no. I’m just tired from work. Kills your arms, you know, swinging an axe about all day.”

“Your job requires you to swing an axe around?” Fenris asked, dubious with a questioning glance to Isabela. _Oh_ , his voice. Hawke could hardly contain himself, swallowing an indulgent sigh.

“Oh, yes, didn’t tell you did I? Well, if the beard and the muscles hadn’t given it away already Hawke’s a lumberjack.” Isabela smiled over the rim of her rum, running a finger slowly over the condensation dribbling down the glass. “You know I didn’t even think it was still a profession before he told me it was.”

“I always thought it was an American thing.” Fenris’ glance was inquiring, as if trying to coax more information from Hawke. Hawke wetted his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Truth be told so did I. It’s only a little place; it’s kind of centred around keeping the profession alive rather than producing a living from it. The pay’s little, but it’s enough to keep me going.” Hawke took an anchoring sip from his beer, steadying his nerves with the way it hit his tongue with a bitter vengefulness. “I enjoy working there. Gets me back to the earth, the soil.”

Hawke gave an easy smile, and Fenris nodded knowingly in reply. The stare Fenris levelled Hawke was hardened, the dull flash of burnt out torch light. There was something dead behind those eyes, something grey and lifeless hiding amongst the green.

“What are you doing with yourself, Fenris?” Isabela asked, resting her chin on the heel of her palm, “Do you have a job at the moment?”

“Well, I haven’t worked for a long time. After I left college I moved to France with…” his voice slowed, became stilted and choked for a fraction of a second be he regained himself. Hawke flinched at the hesitance there. “…with a partner of mine. We, uh, split, a few months back. There’s a gallery near Kirkwall looking for exhibitions from young, unheard of artists. I submitted some of my work and they agreed to host me as an artist there if I could create some new content for them. I suppose it was by fate’s hand that the gallery happened to be so near where you were living.”

“That’s impressive.” Hawke said quietly. It did not go unheard, and Fenris gave him a small, fleeting smile in return.

“Really making a name for yourself, huh?” Isabela grinned.

“Not in the least.” Fenris said, “This is the first time I’ve actually _worked_ since college. That’s at least four years. I wanted to work, in France at least but I never really…got the chance.”

The waver in Fenris’ tone peaked Hawke’s curiosity – and caused an awful lurch at the bottom of his stomach. He reverted once more to watching quietly as Isabela and Fenris talked, adding a laugh or good-natured comment occasionally – so as not to warrant Merrill’s embarrassing observations again.

He was only slightly aware of Varric and Aveline commenting rather bitterly on a wonky lampshade, and Merrill laughing at a text on her phone.

He was awoken from the trance by a plate of gammon and egg being placed in front of him.

“Thanks, Nora.” Varric grinned in that charming _Varric_ way at the waitress as she placed down everyone’s meals, stalking away again without bothering to tell them to enjoy.

“The food here is questionable.” Varric continued, angling his heard towards Fenris as he twisted a wad of spaghetti around his fork. “You learn to appreciate its weird, slightly overcooked yet somehow still undercooked charm eventually.”

“I wouldn’t really call it charm.” Fenris grimaced at a piece of grey chicken hanging limply from his fork.

“Quirkiness then.” Isabela chided.

“I don’t think there’s any way to describe the food here in a good light.” Aveline washed down an undeniably mediocre mouthful of chicken breast with her drink, wiped her mouth on a serviette. “You just have to bare it.”

“I’ll try.” Fenris moved the rice around on his plate, as if hesitant to eat any. He took a quick sip from his wine.

His lips barely touched the glass when he drank, Hawke noticed. Odd.

“How’s the gammon?” Varric elbowed Hawke gently.

“Greasy. The spaghetti?”

“Still a little bit hard. The Hanged Man’s signature with any pasta dish.”

“I don’t know why you’re all complaining, my steak’s very nice.” Merrill said, her speech slightly slurred through a mouthful of steak so rare it was almost bloody.

“That’s because rare steak is _supposed_ to be undercooked, Daisy.” Isabela replied, busily folding little parcels of salmon to place on her crackers.

“Oh, yes, I suppose that does make sense. Doesn’t it?”

“I quite like mine too, though.” Isabela continued as she bit into a cracker, “I’m pretty sure both these crackers and the salmon are from Tesco, but I don’t really mind. As long as no cooking’s involved. Anyone want to try some?”

She offered half a salmon loaded cracker to Fenris, he shrunk back with a wrinkled nose.

“I can’t stand fish.” He said politely, raising his glass to his mouth. He’d hardly touched his rice.

“I know, that’s why I offered you some.” Isabela snickered, “I remember once I brought fish and chips back after I’d been into town and I ate them in your dorm. It smelt like haddock in there for weeks.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you for that.”

A quiet laugh chorused over the table, the scraping and clicking of cutlery over crockery accompanying it like tiny, out of tune instruments.

“That reminds me – where are you staying at the moment, Fenris? You can’t possibly stick around in a motel for weeks.” Isabela raised her bottle to her lips, staring at it accusingly as she realised she’d drained it hollow.

“I’m not entirely sure yet. I mean, it makes the most sense for me to find somewhere to rent out, but I have no idea where to start looking. I don’t really think I’d feel comfortable staying in a stranger’s house anyway.” Fenris explained, taking what seemed like his first mouthful of rice.

“Well I’m sure I could help you sort something out. Find you a cheap place to crash – hey, knowing the kind of contacts that Varric has we may even be able to sort you something out for free.”

Varric winked across the table.

“Oh, really that’s not necessary – “

“I have a spare room.” Hawke regretted saying that as soon as it left his mouth.

Not that he’d be opposed to Fenris staying in his spare room. In fact he’d find himself of very much the  _opposite_ inclination if Fenris was staying in his house but he couldn’t just _say_ that.

He’s known the man barely an hour and he’s already trying to encourage Fenris to move in with him.

What is he doing.

“Yeah!” Isabela mirthfully supports Hawke’s outburst, smiling excitedly, “Hawke’s been using that room to store junk for about a year and a half. We play cards in there sometimes. It’d be nice to see it put to good use.”

“I can’t even remember a time before that dump was a spare room.” Varric laughs.

“Carver lodged in that room before he went to college. He knew mum would expect rent if he stayed with her. He also knows I’m a softy. Little retch found a loophole.” Hawke sighed around a bite of awfully greasy gammon.

“Does that sound good Fenris?” Isabela said, touching his arm softly.

Fenris’ glance flicked uncertainly between her and Hawke, the slight glimmer of white teeth clenching into his lower lip.

“I’ll think about it.” He said quietly.

The night continued in petty conversation, the recurring topics or arguments that come up when Merrill embarrasses Hawke or Isabela makes an inappropriate joke. Fenris’ participation came in a stemmed flow, his voice quieter, his words shorter. He sunk back into his chair as if finished when still half a plate of rice remained on the table. He watched with dark eyes as the conversation grew slightly rowdier, slightly drunker.

Aveline adjourned the congregation when Varric came two inches too close to knocking over his glass.

“Alright, alright, it’s getting late. We all best be off.” Aveline herself couldn’t keep down the slight laugh, the dusting flush in her cheeks, “If you’re not sober enough to drive, for the love of God, please call a taxi.” Aveline stood and tucked her chair under, pulling a wad of cash from her purse to leave on the table. She pulled her coat on with a wary glance out the window – the rain was heavier than ever. “You’ve all got transport, right?”

“I’ll take the bus.” Varric sighed heavily as he stood up, “I can come pick up the car tomorrow.”

“I came on the bus anyway!” Merrill exclaimed and grabbed her own coat, slipping her arms into the far too big sleeves, “I’ll go with you, Varric.”

“And you?” Aveline turned to Isabela, who was counting change.

“I’m going to _assume_ that Fenris is just as _wonderful_ as a friend now as he was in college and he’ll drive me and Hawke home?” Isabela blinked with big, doe eyes, eliciting a small laugh from Fenris, buttoning up his coat and grabbing his umbrella from beneath the table.

“You’re welcome, in advance.” He said dryly.

Brief goodbyes were made, and Hawke and Isabela followed Fenris to the ramshackle old Sedan where it continued to sway piteously in the autumn wind. Isabela jumped into the passenger seat as soon as Fenris unlocked the car.

“If that rain made my eyeliner run I’m going to punch God.” She whined, checking her reflection in the rear view mirror.

The car groaned beneath Hawke’s weight as he climbed into the back seat, buckling himself in with a threadbare seatbelt.

Fenris drove the car better than Isabela, more familiar with the way it worked. Isabela had ruthlessly tumbled over every speed-bump and pothole, Fenris seemed to take a more cautious approach, avoiding bumps and dips, changing gears appropriately. Isabela chastised him for being such ‘precautionary prude’ the entire drive.

“My apartment is just down this street.” Isabela said as they veered down the high street, passing the off-license and the old shoe shop. “You can drop me off in front of those bushes there. Yeah, those ones.”

Isabela kissed Fenris on the cheek before jumping out the car, hovering next to the door,

“Thanks for letting me borrow the car earlier, Fenny. It was a real help.” She said, “And consider what Hawke said about his spare room! Toodles!”

The sound of heels clicking over concrete followed the slamming of the door, succeeded quickly by the jangle of keys and the turn of a lock.

Fenris leant over the seat, looking back at Hawke out of the corner of his eye,

“Where do you live?”

“Not far from here.” Hawke said nervously, suddenly hyper aware that he was alone with Fenris now.

He’d met him barely three hours ago. Could Hawke not contain his awkward crushes even moments after a first meeting? Apparently not.

“There’s a short cut through the back alleys, but it’s a bit confusing, we’d be better off taking the main road back.” Hawke shifted in his seat, leaning forward so his chest was resting on the back of the passenger’s seat, “If you just follow the high street back the way we came, but turn left when you reach the town hall and then keep going straight you’ll reach a little cul-de-sac, you can drop me off there and I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Fenris changed gears and watched attentively as he reversed.

“Drop you off? Are you sure, it’s still raining quite hard.”

“I’ll be fine!” Hawke said, perhaps a little too overtly, “It’s, uh, it’s not too far a walk.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

The drive was stiflingly silent, the only conversation the occasional comment from Hawke when Fenris seemed to lose his way. Kirkwall was November dark – a thick, grey kind of dark that separated people from each other in a hazy, disorienting wall of rain and fog.

“Is this the right way?” Fenris murmured over his shoulder as he turned left. All artificial light seemed to disappear in that moment, the car becoming encased in a harsh, blue darkness. Only two long white rods of light led the way, and Hawke glanced out of the window at the pine trees towering either side of the car.

“Yeah. There’s this weird kind of pine tree tunnel that goes on for about five minutes. It thins out into houses eventually.” Hawke’s breath fogged the window, and he drew a little tree in the mist. “There’s loads of places like this in Kirkwall. It’s…kind of whimsical, in a way. Like something pulled out of a children’s book.”

“Yes, I’d noticed that.” Fenris said, his voice almost overpowered by the pained effort of the windscreen wipers. “But I’d say less fairy tale and more…Twin Peaks.”

“I love that show.” Hawke laughed softly, turning his gaze to the back of Fenris’ head.

“No spoilers.” Fenris replied, a slight smirk in his voice, “I’m only half way through season one.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“…I hope this isn’t too forward,” Fenris said bluntly, his grip visibly tightening on the steering wheel, “But what you and Isabela said about that spare room…does the offer still stand?”

“Well, I mean, if you need a place to stay then of course. I don’t have the heart to turn anyone down,” Hawke ran a hand through his hair, somewhat embarrassed at such a confession, “You could be a crazy cat lady with three rooms’ worth of luggage and I’d still let you have the room if you were desperate enough.”

Fenris’ laugh was hollow, but not humourless, as if understanding that he was amused by the comment, but not having enough energy to smile. It was sad really. Fenris seemed troubled.

“It’s just that I’d hate to intrude.” He sighed, “I can’t stay in this awful Travel Lodge for much longer. I’ve been there for five days already.”

The car lit up again as the trees fell away, and the street lamps came back into view. Hawke squinted against the glare and frowned as he noticed they were drawing closer to his house.

“But if you’d rather I not…then I won’t.” Fenris slowed down as they reached a curb side, the Sedan bumping gently against it. The streets were silent. Car rumblings heard at only a distance. “I can always find somewhere else.”

“No, no it’s fine.” Hawke explained. He unbuckled his seat belt and reached for the door handle, “If you want to drop down here tomorrow, around nine maybe. I’m at number five, feel free to come over. I can show you the spare room.”

“That would be good of you.”

“Sorted then. Good night, Fenris. Nice meeting you.” Hawke stepped out of the car, feet landing heavily on the pavement. The rain had settled, now barely a drizzle. He still felt the droplets trickling through his hair and down the back of his collar.

“Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow, Hawke.”

Hawke waved as Fenris pulled away, rolling down the road with a smoky rattle of exhaust fumes and creaking doors.

“That could have gone worse.” Hawke admitted as he made his way down the pavement, turning at the steps towards his front door.


	2. skin

Hawke woke groggy, his eyelids sticking together and his mouth bitter with the taste of sleep and stale alcohol from the night before. He sat and ran a thick fingered hand through his hair; a knotted and greasy bird’s nest if ever there was one. Dried food stuck was stuck in his beard.

The bedside clock blinked **09:12** in robotic red letters, hidden partially by the pile of movies and tissue box that Hawke kept on the bedside table. He yawned, pushing into the bed with his side, pulling the quilt up to his ears. He kept his stare locked to the clock until it turned **09:13**.

The doorbell rang and every single memory of the night before came flooding back at once.

Fenris was outside his house and Hawke was in bed wearing only his underwear with dried egg on his face and untreated alcohol breath.

Nothing more awful could have possibly happened to him.

Jumping to his feet, Hawke grabbed a pair of tracksuit bottoms slung lazily over his armchair and pulled them on, careful not to step on Dog, who was sleeping flat cold on his back. He grabbed his dressing gown as he rushed down the stairs, tripping over his feet once or twice. He noticed he was only wearing one sock as he bound the dressing gown belt up.

His keys were on the kitchen counter, and he grabbed them before scrambling ungracefully towards the door. He jammed the keys in with a little fumbling, and opened the door with enough pressure in his chest to crush his ribcage.

“Sorry! Sorry, I slept in.” Hawke raked a hand over his face with embarrassment, “I look awful, I know. I’m sorry.”

Fenris was standing patiently at the doorstep, his chin hidden by a thick grey scarf and his hands buried in his pockets.

“Come on in.” Hawke sighed wearily, pulling the door wider and stepping aside. Fenris walked in hesitantly, a shy “Thank you.” barely ghosting out of his lips.

“Was it cold out? You look ready for the apocalypse.”

Fenris looked himself over – big scarf, long black coat, woollen socks just visible over the top of his boots. He blushed slightly, tugging at his scarf.

“The rain left a bit of a chill.” He explained quietly, “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Oh! Oh no, of course not. _I’m_ sorry for sleeping in.” Hawke grinned, “Here, let me show you the room.”

Fenris followed Hawke as he led the way up the stairs. Hawke was aware of Fenris’ wandering gaze, the way he trailed his fingers up the bannister and how he shifted the weight in his feet to listen out for different creaks and groans in the floorboards.

“Is it an old house?” Fenris asked.

Hawke stopped in the hallway, give his familiar home a once over. Truth be told, he’d never considered the age of his house – he’d lived there for so long, its rustic charm had kind of just become an accepted feature. He knew it must have appeared old, with its long, bare floorboards and musty coloured walls. It was almost like a cabin, though it most definitely was not one.

“I’m not really sure, if I’m completely honest with you. Why?” Hawke asked politely, “Would that put you off?”

“No. No, I’m just curious.” Fenris planted a gentle hand on the wall in front of him, splaying his fingers over it, “Brown is an…interesting choice of colour to paint the walls.”

“They were brown when I moved in,” Hawke chuckled, a slight self-consciousness in his tone. He opened the door to the spare room, the old, dusty smell hitting him like a shock wave. “I was too lazy to paint them.”

Hawke stepped into the spare room, gesturing for Fenris to follow.

“The bathroom walls aren’t brown though.” He laughed, “They’re a faded floral print wallpaper. Charming in a hideous kind of way.”

Fenris leant against the doorframe, his shoulder moulding to the soft, dark wood.

The spare room was reasonably big, the floorboards greyer than everywhere else in the house, the walls deflated. A small desk and chair sat in the corner, an ugly lamp angled over the dusty surface, an old TV and VHS player tucked beneath the desk. A bed without a mattress occupied the opposite corner, the frame of it like a rasping, oak rib cage. Boxes large and small littered the room all over.

“We can move the boxes out.” Hawke said, picking up one near to his feet, “My mum will be fine if I put them in her basement. There’s enough room down there. Come on in.” Hawke spread his arm towards the room.

Fenris wandered in, his steps averse and measured like a deer’s. He found a halfway point between the bed and the desk, looking over everything with an expert’s eye. Well. What Hawke would assume was an expert’s eye. He had no idea.

“Is this…okay?”

“More than okay.” Fenris said, looking around wistfully, as if this damp old room was the best thing he’d seen in years. He clutched at his arms with gloved hands. “This is perfect. If you’re…still okay with it, I mean.”

“Yeah! Yeah, definitely. If it means I’m helping out.” Hawke’s hand went to the doorknob, encircling the bronze handle as an anchor, “Do you want to see the rest of the house?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Hawke lead Fenris through the upstairs with a dreary, sleep slurred narration. He showed off the bathroom with its rosy wallpaper and peach coloured bathtub, and the study with its detached coldness and the paintings with the ever-watching eyes that Hawke’s mother had gifted to him. He neglected to show Fenris his room, realising it verged on a closeness that they have not yet achieved in the bare day they’ve known each other – he also didn’t want Fenris seeing his unmade bed and Dog slobbering grossly over the floor whilst he slept.

Hawke showed him the kitchen only briefly, aware that a table, some chairs and load of reclaimed wood couldn’t be all that interesting. The living room was nicer, further perpetuating the rustic aesthetic Hawke seemed to be sporting. The walls were a similar yellow-brown to everywhere else in the house, and the sofas were well-loved and olive green. The shelves were packed with countless books and movies, the walls strung with pictures and paintings. The fluffy rug on the floor and faux deer head ornament on the wall were gifts from Isabela and Merrill – making fun of Hawke’s employment. The floor was still bare, wooden boards.

“This is very nice.” Fenris muttered, his eyes lingering on the open hearth fireplace and the picture frames on the mantel piece above it.

“Thank you.” Hawke said, “Really lovely in the winter, when the fire’s going and everything. We put Christmas lights in Bradley’s antlers on the 20th Decemeber. Tradition.” He gestured to the stag ornament, and Fenris snorted slightly.

“Its name is Bradley?”

“Having a name for something is a way of showing affection.”

A chorus of anguished barks broke the conversation, echoing through hallways and doors. Hawke frowned at the ceiling, crossing his arms.

“You have a dog?” Fenris said, following Hawke’s gaze despite it only leading to the bare ceiling.

“Yes, one that hasn’t had his breakfast.” Hawke tightened his dressing gown belt and made towards the door, “You have a look around, Fenris, I’ll deal with the drama queen.”

Dog’s back legs were elevated onto the armchair when Hawke found him, his front legs sound on the floor. He looked at Hawke with huge, sad brown eyes, tongue lolling out with a wet slapping noise.

“What _are_ you doing you silly thing?”

Dog didn’t reply, because he was a Dog and did not have the mental capacity to speak, but he did roll off the chair with an ungraceful _thump_ and trotted out of Hawke’s bedroom with his tail swaying gently. Hawke followed Dog to the kitchen, where he sat expectantly in front of his food bowl.

“I see how it is.” Hawke muttered as he pulled an unopened can of food from Dog’s allocated ‘food, treats and supplies’ cupboard. “No good morning kisses today, you just want me for the food. I understand.”

Dog’s food reeked of something that had been left on the road to die, and after trying his best to wash the awful smell from his hands, he returned to the living room hoping he didn’t smell like beef chunks and gravy.

Fenris was standing near the fireplace, inspecting the three picture frames with that ever present hollow look in his eyes. He didn’t seem particularly worried by the photograph of Dog drooling all over himself, he was more occupied by the picture to his left.

“Are they family?” Fenris asked, somehow knowing Hawke was there without turning. Hawke drew closer and hovered over Fenris’ shoulder, looking at the picture in question.

“Ah, yeah, my younger siblings.” The picture had been taken sometime last year, when Carver had just started college and Bethany was training to be a teaching assistant. Carver was frowning in the photo, his head being swallowed by a thick blue bobble hat. Bethany pulled at his cheek with red gloved hands and grinned lopsidedly at the camera. It had been raining when Hawke took that photo on a disposable camera with cold, shaking hands. Flecks of white and grey obscure it somewhat, like sparks flying off a bonfire. His thumb was visible in the corner as well. However much he’d butchered what could have been a really nice shot, it was still up here on his mantel piece. “Carver and Bethany. Twins, if you couldn’t tell. They have the same nose.”

“Hmm.” Fenris’ voice was low, deep in his throat as if thinking something over.

Hawke stayed silent for a moment, remaining still at Fenris’ shoulder, hands dipped into the pockets of his dressing gown. Fenris seemed loathe to continue conversation, but Hawke was never any good at starting it. He coughed into his hand.

“So, uh, do you like everything?” he said, stilted and awkward.

“Oh, yes. You have a very nice house. Well kept.” Fenris nodded, pulling his gaze from the mantel piece. He rocked on his heels, gaze angled just barely towards Hawke.

“Thank you.” Hawke said, “Well, if everything’s good with you, when would you like to, uh, bring your stuff over I guess?”

“As soon as possible.” Fenris said decidedly, “I can’t stay in that Travel Lodge for much longer. It’s awful.”

“What about today?”

Hawke, constantly saying things he didn’t mean to say that are – frankly – ridiculous. Keeping up with his track record.

“Today?” Fenris’ eyebrow shot up instantly.

“Well, yeah sure, why not.” Hawke was desperately trying to save this, “I can drop off those boxes to my mum’s place this afternoon and then I can pick you and your stuff up in the evening. If you’re so desperate to be out of there I have no problem with it.”

“Well…yes, okay then. Thank you, Hawke.”

“No problem.”

Fenris excused himself soon after, explaining that he should pack his stuff up before Hawke came to pick him up later. Hawke had given a cheery goodbye and immediately pelted upstairs to throw off his dressing gown and put on some decent clothes.

He couldn’t be bothered to find a new outfit, and just slipped into his clothes from the night before. There was a distinct mustard stain on his sleeve from an unfortunate accident with his gammon the previous night, but Dog did a decent job of licking it off when Hawke went to refill his water bowl.

“I’m not sure if dogs should eat mustard.” Hawke said, Dog head butting him affectionately in the gut.

He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl for a late breakfast, and his phone buzzed at the first bite.

 

**Anders (10:26)**

**Hey, sorry I couldnt get to dinner last night**

**Anders (10:26)**

**Hospital was so busy I didnt get home till past midnight**

**Anders (10:27)**

**Will lunch today make up for it?**

**Garrett (10:27)**

**Hi!! Yeah of course lunch sounds great**

**Garrett (10:27)**

**Ive got to head down to my mums later to do some stuff tho would you wanna come w/ me??**

**Anders (10:28)**

**Sure, what are you doing down there**

**Garrett (10:29)**

**Ill explain later, bit of a long story**

**Garrett (10:29)**

**Pick you up at 11?**

**Anders (10:29)**

**Sounds good**

 

Anders looked like hell when Hawke pulled into his drive, sitting on the doorstep with his hair in a greasy disarray and his clothes unironed. He looked like a tired raccoon when he climbed into the car, eyes ringed in grey.

“Morning.” Anders said as he plugged in his seatbelt, “Sorry if I leave cat hair on your seats, Pounce wouldn’t leave me alone this morning.”

“It’s alright,” Hawke laughed as he pulled onto the main road, “Not like this thing is that immaculate anyway.”

Anders rolled down the window and turned his head to the drizzling breeze. It was a grey day, bleak and pale and barely visible through a veil of dampening mist. It was the kind of coolness that penetrated your skin, made all the hairs on your arms stand on end. Kirkwall glistened in this kind of weather, slick black and grey and every grim, miserable colour in between. Hawke wanted to roll the window up, but Anders seemed calmed by the gentle patter of drizzle on his face and hair.

“So what are we doing at your mother’s?” he asked, his voice a soft, tired rasp.

“Well, if you’d have been around last night – and I’m not blaming you for your absence here – you’d have met Fenris. He was an old friend of Isabela’s from college and, well, he’s in dire need of a place to stay whilst he’s here in Kirkwall so I…kind of caved disastrously early, seeing as I barely know the guy, and told him he could move into my spare room.” Hawke could feel the disapproving stare boring into the side of his head, “So I’m moving all of these boxes from the spare room to my mum’s basement.”

“…Hawke – “

“Look,” Hawke ran his hands awkwardly over the steering wheel, feeling the cold air in the car beginning to crush him, “Anders, I know that was kind of brash, but I let my mouth run when I’m nervous, you know that. I was meeting a new person, I didn’t realise how weird of me it was to just up and say, _hey why don’t you move in with me_. But…well, I don’t know the details but he…he seems like he’s got some real issues. It’s the way he looks at you, you know? Like there’s some story behind the eyes. It’s like he’s looking straight through me sometimes.”

“Alright, so a virtual stranger you’re waxing poetic over is moving in with you...when?”

The familiar sensation of throat expansion became Hawke’s sole feeling for a second. He blinked and swallowed, eyes flitting from the road to Anders.

“ _Hawke_.”

“This evening.”

“Oh my god.”

“Anders, please, he’s not _really_ a stranger. I mean, Isabela has been friends with him for years.”

Anders laughed bitterly, running his fingers through his hair. He levelled Hawke a look to move mountains.

“And Isabela’s such a trustworthy source.”

“First of all, I’m telling her you said that. Second of all, it’s completely normal for roommates to not know each other when they first move in together. And _third_ , he seems like a pretty nice guy all round. Trust me, I know some of Isabela’s other friends and I’m grateful that Fenris is the one moving in.”

“Right.” Anders sighed into his palms, rubbing beneath his eyes, “Okay. I see what you mean but still…it just…okay, whatever, I don’t care anymore.” He turned to face Hawke fully, pulling his hair back behind his ears. “Where are we going for lunch?”

“Spoons?” Hawke suggested, simply because as the car trundled past Tesco he remembered that there was one just across the street. “I know it’s the ‘commoner’s option’ as Isabela may put it but I’ve been there enough times with Carver to actually grow kind of fond of it.”

“Your brother’s such a chav.” Anders laughed.

“The lad of all lads.” Hawke replied, pulling into the Wetherspoons’ carpark. “We love him though.”

Isabela texted Hawke half way through his bacon and cheese baguette. He checked his phone discreetly as Anders talked about a little boy at the hospital the previous night who had a crayon stuck up his nose.

 

**Isabela (11:14)**

**U R AN ANGEL**

 

**Garrett (11:14)**

**I know.**

**Garrett (11:14)**

**Wait why**

**Isabela (11:15)**

**FOR PUTTING FENNY UP**

**Isabela (11:15)**

**he texted me and hes so happy to be out of that motel!!!!!!**

**Garrett (11:16)**

**Oh well you know. im happy to put anyone up if they really need it**

**Isabela (11:16)**

**god knows fenris needs it lmao i mean i love him we r like besties 5ever but i know hes a little messed**

**Garrett (11:17)**

**A little messed??**

**Isabela (11:17)**

**ya like mentally/emotionally hes kind of a wreck**

**Isabela (11:17)**

**idk what happened between him + his ex but if fenny were a lil weird b4 then his bf rlly pushed his weirdness over the edge**

**Isabela (11:18)**

**its kinda sad tbh**

**Isabela (11:18)**

**okay it was nice talkin to u hawkey but I gtg. love ya see u soon xxx**

“…what was weirder is that the kid wanted to _keep_ the crayon – oh, who were you texting?” Anders was wiping some mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth as Hawke looked up, slipping his phone back into the pocket of his jeans.

“Just Isabela.” Hawke said, taking another bite of his baguette, “So he wanted to keep a crayon that he’d had up his nose?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’d understand if it was his crayon, but it wasn’t, another kid stuck it up there when he was at school…”

They finished lunch by about quarter to twelve, Anders leaving half of his wrap because the lettuce was oddly warm.

It wasn’t a long drive to Hawke’s mother’s. The old house where Hawke remembered a fond childhood was huge and regal, hiding amongst the pine trees at the foot of a hill Hawke used to roll down when the grass was dry in the summer. Hawke’s mother was standing in the porch by the time he’d parked, waving and smiling at Anders who was already getting out of the car.

“Hi, mum!” Hawke called out of the window as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Hello love.” Leandra smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt and made her way to the car, hugging Hawke as he got out. “What are you doing round, darling?”

Hawke returned the hug with one arm as he locked up the door, giving her his best ‘I’m your son and you’d do anything for me’ smile.

“I needed to clear these boxes out of the spare room.” He gestured the boot of the car with his thumb, “There’s enough room in the basement for these, right?”

“He only came to visit so he could get rid of his junk, Leandra.” Anders crossed his arms, leaning against the porch with a smirk. The humour in it was for Leandra, the smugness for Hawke. They locked a narrow eyed stare.

“Oh yes, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Leandra chuckled as she gestured for Hawke and Anders to accompany her inside, her pumps clicking over the hardwood floor of the front landing. The Hawke house was one that hadn’t changed for at least fifteen years, with the same beige walls and high ceilings. An ancient grandfather clock sat like a lonely giant against the wall, its ticking a noise Hawke remembered from sitting alone in this hall late at night when he couldn’t sleep – something he’d done since he was eleven. “Last time he came over to ‘give’ me something it was a positively hideous rug. It’s in one of the spare bedrooms now.”

“Was it is the orange and blue one?” Hawke asked, closing the door behind them and following his mother through to the kitchen.

“Yes, that one, Garrett.”

“Merrill got that for you.” Anders said disapprovingly, pulling out an offered chair at the kitchen table.

“Merrill always gets me rugs. You know the brown shag carpet in the living room?” Hawke took a chair opposite and Leandra set to making tea for the three of them.

“The one that looks like a bear?” Anders raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, that was last year’s Christmas present from her. She and Isabela wanted to get me lumberjack themed gifts that year.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.” Leandra muttered as she added a teabag to each tall, beige mug. Everything in the Hawke family household was a shade of beige or brown or off-white; it just seemed to be the family’s personal palette. “Do you have sugar in your tea, Anders?”

“No, just a sweetener, thank you.”

“So why do you need the spare room suddenly, Garrett?” Leandra left the kettle to boil and joined the boys at the kitchen table.

Hawke could feel Anders’ deploring stare burning huge holes into his face. This shouldn’t have been so difficult to explain to his mother.

“A friend of Garrett’s is moving in with him, right Garrett?” Hawke’s friends only called him Garrett when they were teasing him or they were in front of his mother. When it was both he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.

“Oh, really? Is it a new boyfriend?” Leandra’s face lit up with the excitement of a mother finding her son may not be single anymore. Anders stifled a laugh into the back of his palm.

“No, mum, he’s not my boyfriend.” Hawke sighed into his hands, “He’s a friend of Isabela’s. He really needed a place to stay, and I had the spare room just sitting there and…it kind of just slipped out. But he’s nice, and doesn’t seem too high maintenance, so I won’t mind it.”

“And he neglects to mention that he only met said nice and not too high maintenance guy last night.” Anders chastised, his gaze flicking to the now fully boiled kettle on the kitchen counter.

Leandra rose to resume making the tea, but kept talking,

“Hmm…only last night, darling? It that really wise?” she said in that awful ‘not angry just disappointed’ tone. The opening of the fridge as she went to grab the milk seemed to correspond perfectly with the chilliness in her and Anders’ eyes.

“Anders said the exact same thing.” Hawke glared at Anders, who was sitting with his arms crossed indignantly, “But he’s Isabela’s friend and he has some…issues. I’d feel bad if I didn’t offer him the room.”

“Just because you feel bad for him doesn’t mean you have to give him the room.” Anders said coldly.

“Anders is right, dear. We can’t tell you what to do and I’m sure he’s a lovely fellow, but…you really should think about it.” Leandra set down the mugs on the table, her motherly disapproval palpable in the space between her and Hawke.

“I have thought about it!” Hawke was greeted only by unbelieving stares and the twisted curl of Anders’ mouth. “Fine. Fine, I’m just going to get the boxes.”

Hawke stood from the table and tucked in his chair, heading out to the front hall.

“Garrett, what about your tea?”

“I’ll have it afterwards!” he called out from the front door.

The boxes were wilted, thin and flimsy from years of staying shoved into corners and tipped upside down in the spare bedroom. They smelt unloved, of dust and possibly some kind of harmless mould. Hawke carried three at time, dumping them unceremoniously in the grey darkness of his mother’s basement. His mother called several times to tell him his tea was going cold, ask if he wanted help, if he needed a break. Hawke disregarded her each time with a politely gruff,

“I’m fine.”

By the time all the boxes were in a mountainous pile in the basement, Hawke’s skin was shining and sticky. He removed his jumper and tied it around his waist, sitting on the floor of the basement and breathing the cold air.

The floor was cool and slightly damp on Hawke’s thighs through his trousers, the chill spread through him pleasantly as he stayed there, mouth open and growing dry. His hands were braced against the floor as if worried he may slip away down a horizontal surface. The dewy floor was like a little slice of cold, dark childhood under Hawke’s hands. He used to sit down here in the summer, with Bethany draped over his legs and Carver limp over dad’s old red armchair – the one that now sat in Hawke’s bedroom as a gentle, solemn reminder.  It was the only way to escape the Kirkwall heat, to lie in the cold, staring out at the door at the top of the stairs, where a gentle white light would stream through.

Young Garrett Hawke had always lain there spread eagle, Bethany’s weight on his legs like rocks tied to a drowning man’s ankles, and he’d think this is what it’s like to die: lying cold and heavy and shirtless in the darkness, looking up at the light reaching out with long silvery fingers. The sweat on his forehead the water from the lake where he drowned.

Hawke wondered for a second why he was such a morbid child.

“Garrett, darling, are you done with those boxes?” his mother’s voice broke the train of thought, floating through the stiff air in a warm, sing-song contrast.

“Yes. Yes, mum.” Hawke replied as he pulled himself from the floor, making his way up the creaking stairs towards the upstairs landing. “I got a bit distracted.”

Leandra was standing in the hallway, a thermal flask clutched between her hands. She was wearing a sweet, tense smile.

“I put your tea in a flask for you.” she said, holding the flask out.

“Thank you.” Hawke said, taking it from her, “Look, I’m sorry for snapping earlier. It’s just…it feels like you and Anders were trying to tell me what to do. I know that’s childish, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, nonsense darling. You’re an adult, I trust your judgement, even if I’d be a bit more cautious myself.”

Hawke laughed softly, looking fondly at the flask in his hands.

“I think I can trust him, mother.”

“What’s he like?” Leandra asked, walking back towards the kitchen. Hawke followed.

“He’s nice. A little strange, but he’s polite. He and Isabela went to college together.” Hawke took a seat at the kitchen table besides Anders, who was looking at his watch nervously.

“What does he do?” Leandra asked, running hot water into the sink and squeezing Fairy Liquid into the tub.

“He’s an artist.”

“So he’s unemployed.” Anders mumbled into his collar.

“ _No_ ,” Hawke wanted to glare at Anders again, but he couldn’t help but smile slightly, “He’s actually got a deal with an art gallery just outside town. That’s why he’s staying in Kirkwall, he needs to stay close to where his art’s being displayed.”

“Oh, wow, Garrett, an artist.” Leandra smiled over her shoulder, “How lovely.”

Anders, still looking at his watch, elbowed Hawke gently in the arm. He nodded towards the kitchen clock – quarter to one – and then out the window to where the car was still parked.

“I have a shift at two, I should really be going.” He whispered.

“Oh, alright.” Hawke stood and pushed in his chair, “Mum we should get going, Anders’ shift starts soon.”

“Alright then, love. You’ll be back soon won’t you?” Leandra reached to hug Hawke as he stepped over to her, Anders tapping his foot impatiently – albeit in an attempt to be discreet.

“ ‘Course, I’ll bring Dog round soon so we can walk him.”

“That will be nice. Oh, go on then, don’t let me keep you. Love you.”

“Love you too, mum.”

“It was nice to see you, Anders.”

“You too.”

Hawke had Anders back home by quarter past one, his face a little less creased with nerves. He jumped out with a meek little wave, watching as Hawke pulled out of the driveway. Hawke beeped the horn as he left, seeing Anders laughing and continue to wave in the rear view mirror.

Greeted by a loud yapping mutt, Hawke sat in the kitchen for a while just stroking Dog and rubbing his belly lovingly, taking the occasional swig from the flask of tea. He retired to the living room afterward, collapsing onto the sofa and proceeding to pull out his phone to text Isabela.

 

**Garrett (13:33)**

**Can you tell fenris that ill pick him and his stuff up at around 6 please???**

**Garrett (13:33)**

**I forgot to ask for his number when he was over earlier**

**Isabela (13:33)**

**ooooh u were planning on asking fenris for his number ;)))))))**

**Garrett (13:34)**

**No!!!!**

**Isabela (13:34)**

***eyebrow waggle***

**Garrett (13:34)**

**You keep these eyebrows still young lady**

**Garrett (13:34)**

**I wanted it for communicative reasons only**

**Isabela (13:35)**

**ye communicative reasons like asking him on a DATE**

**Garrett (13:35)**

**NO!!!!!!!!**

**Isabela (13:36)**

**tbh dont blame u fenris is hot as hell**

**Isabela (13:36)**

**lmao dont worry kitten ill tell him**

**Garrett (13:37)**

**Thank you**

**Isabela (13:39)**

**he said okay and also do u know which motel it is**

**Garrett (13:39)**

**The one behind homebase right?????**

**Isabela (13:40)**

**ya that one**

**Garrett (13:40)**

**Okay thank you isabela!!**

**Isabela (13:40)**

**np kitten!!! xxx**

Hawke returned from a walk with Dog at quarter to six, and left him in the kitchen with a towel and a handful of dog treats.

“Be good or you’re not sleeping in my room tonight.” Were his parting words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that the imagery I've used in relation to Hawke's house is a little confusing, so here's what I imagine his house looking like:  
> http://vintagepales.tumblr.com/post/136819001943/lamour-ne-p%C3%A9rit-jamais   
> And this is the kind of aesthetic the inside of his house gives off:  
> http://vintagepales.tumblr.com/post/136048504083/lamour-ne-p%C3%A9rit-jamais  
> Expect more links to that particular blog in relation to imagery - it's where I get most of my writing insp.


	3. taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter today. trying to figure out a good sequence for things.

There was little traffic – there were never any cars out this late in Kirkwall – but troops of teenagers rolled in and out of pubs and clubs, drunk on the alcohol that the ‘I couldn’t care less about the legal drinking age’ bar tenders sold to them. Hawke was almost blinded by a girl’s sequin dress at one point, and another time almost knocked over a boy playing chicken in his girlfriend’s heels on a dare. He felt lucky to be alive when he parked in front of the motel at five past six.

He could see Fenris waiting outside the motel, his head bowed and face illuminated in the blue glow of a phone. He looked up when he heard the engine turn off.

“Hi, didn’t keep you waiting did I?” Hawke said as he got out of the car and Fenris made his way toward him.

“No, I only came down a minute ago. Give me a second, I’ll go get my stuff. I might need your help actually; I have a few canvases that wouldn’t fit in the suitcases.”

Hawke agreed and followed Fenris into the motel, the flickering grey lights overhead making him feel a little like he was walking through a prison.

Every room had a single white light humming above it, illuminating the numbers and revealing every scratch and smear and imperfection on the pale grey panelling. The light above Fenris’ door was flickering violently.

“Don’t think too much of the stains on the carpet,” Fenris said nonchalantly as he opened the door, “Half of them were already there when I got here and the others are from smeared paint.”

The room looked as one usually does after a guest leaves; with the bed made, but not quite as neatly as they always are when one arrives in a hotel. A stack of six or so canvases in a disparity of sizes lay beside the TV stand and two small suitcases leant against the wardrobe.

“Only two suitcases?” Hawke asked as Fenris picked them up, “Is that…all your stuff? In two suitcases?”

“There was a lot of stuff I left in France.” Fenris explained, “I didn’t care much for it, none of it held any sentiment for me.”

“I see…” Hawke looked at the pile of canvases, curious to see what was painted or drawn on them, “Would you like me to take those for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Hawke manages to clutch three canvases under each of his arms, placing the two blank ones closest to his body, and the ones already started facing backwards next to his arms. He’d noticed only minutely before picking the pile up that the first canvas was a detailed pencil drawing of a hand. Almost hyper-realistic, but with a stylised boniness to it, each knuckle and joint popping and protruding. It had been gripping into material, if he remembered correctly, and each of the fingertips and knuckles had been washed over in a ruddy red pink. Hawke wasn’t an artist, but he imagined paintings of hands alone weren’t often what galleries asked for – no matter how nice they were to look at.

Fenris checked out of his room in the main office, and then followed Hawke to the car where the suitcases were left in the boot and the canvases carefully laid down on the backseats. Hawke promised to drive slowly so none of them tipped over or slipped around.

“I can help you unpack when we get back if you’d like. Or not – I mean, if you want some space.”

“That’s good of you, Hawke, but I’m sure I’ll be fine by myself.” Fenris said, his gaze turned to the window like Anders had sat earlier that day. The window was closed this time though, an invisible barrier between him and the rest of the world, only made visible by the droplets of rain water, painting it like a –

“Hey, sorry if this is random, but you might know the answer to this seeing as you’re an artist. Who’s the guy who got really famous for painting some dots on a canvas?” Hawke tilted his head over to Fenris, who still wasn’t looking at him, though the angle of his own head was indication enough he was listening.

“Damien Hirst? He painted several canvases full of dots. There’s one called Diacetoxyscirper worth £18, 000 if you can believe it.” Fenris replied in monotone, and Hawke nodded along with his words.

“Yeah, when the rain lands on windows in little drops it always reminds me of those paintings. Just a…a watered down version I guess. Literally.” Hawke laughs to himself as he stops at a traffic light, another battalion of abbreviated teenagers waddling over the zebra crossing. “I guess that’s kind of silly.”

“Hmm, not really.” Fenris turned to face the windscreen, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips, “That’s the kind of thing artists do actually – interpret the world through a creative lens, comparing things to our own work and to that of others. Taking ideas from the things we see.”

“Where do you get your ideas?” Hawke asked, the light turning green and the car rumbling through town once more. The town hall loomed and he turned towards the affectionately dubbed pine tree tunnel.

“Experiences and dreams – ironically enough seeing as they couldn’t be more different.”

Hawke thought of the red knuckled hand on the canvas, wondered if that was an experience or a dream. He wondered if it was Fenris’ own hand – lacking the tattoos and dusky complexion – gripping at his own shirt, or maybe it was someone else’s hand. Maybe he dreamt of a hand grabbing at his shirt, grabbing at a sheet, a blanket, a curtain, anything.

“I guess your art must range from the ordinary to the outlandish then?” Hawke offered, realising he’d grown silent for a second too long.

“Not really. It’s odd that my dreams never seem to stray from things you see in reality.” Fenris gave a flat sounding bark of a laugh, looking at his hands in his lap, “My work is supposed to reflect the off putting feeling I get in my dreams – often when I fall asleep I see completely everyday things with the odd…supernatural element I suppose. I just dream about bright lights in dark places a lot.”

“Wow…I wish I had dreams like that. Last night I dreamt that I’d left Dog at Tesco after I’d gone shopping and when I went to look for him all I did was buy another lettuce.”

“That certainly does sound like an interesting dream.”

Fenris got out of the car almost instantly when Hawke pulled up in front of the house. He got his suitcases out of the boot and waited patiently on the pavement. Hawke collected the canvases and tucked them under his arms in the fashion as before, keys in his hand.

“Hey, uh, would you mind getting the door for me, I can’t really do it with these canvases under my arms.” Hawke held out his hand as far as he could with dropping the canvases, and Fenris took the keys with a gentle nod.

He unlocked the door, but waited for Hawke to enter first.

“Have you eaten tonight? I was thinking about just ordering pizza if you haven’t.” Hawke settled the canvases on the first step of the stairs, joining them in a relaxed cross-legged stature.

Fenris remained static, his hands curled around the handles of his suitcase like he wielded two weapons between his hands. He stood stiff in the centre of the threshold, door wide open behind him. The glow of an amber streetlight behind him threw his hair into the impression of a wide, scintillating halo.

“I am rather hungry actually.” He looked down to his feet, answer soft and quiet, “I’ll pay for mine, though. It’s bad enough that you’re letting me stay in your home without rent, you don’t need to pay for my meals as well.”

A sympathetic frown pulled at Hawke’s mouth, and with a tug of fingertips through his beard he rose.

“All right, I’ll put these in the spare room then.” Hawke lifted the canvases again, beginning to ascend the stairs, “There’s no mattress on the bed at the moment because I keep the spare one in my room. I’ll go get it after the pizza gets here.”

Fenris trailed at least two steps behind, always keeping a respectable distance between himself and Hawke as they left the bags and canvases in the spare – in _Fenris’_ room. Hawke left him to unpack his things and get used to the new space.

He had three texts from Isabela.

 

**Isabela (19:37)**

**good luck w/ fenny!!!!! remember he is a little messed and a little weird so pls be gentle with him**

**Isabela (19:37)**

**if u know what i mean ;O**

**Isabela (18:37)**

**xxx**

When Fenris made an appearance in the living room Hawke was half way through a TV airing of a Lord of the Rings film, a pizza menu in his lap and his phone lying untouched on the arm of the sofa. Dog was spread out like a ragdoll, his head on Hawke’s thigh.

“Hey,” Hawke greeted casually, turning down the volume on the TV, “I didn’t want to order the pizza until you got down, what do you like on yours?”

Fenris took a seat on the other sofa, his legs tight together in a gesture of anxiety. He tucked a loose strand of wispy hair behind his ear.

“Just plain, if that’s alright. How much will I owe you?”

“Oh, please. It’s your first night, you’re probably feeling a little stressed out right now – I’ll buy your pizza.” Hawke laughed as he dialled in the pizza place’s number, “Isabela says the fact that I always get meat-feast should have been a quicker indication to my mum that I was gay.”

A stifled chuckle comes from Fenris’ direction. Hawke notices the tension in his shoulders loosen – he draws his legs up to his chest, and curls up onto the sofa.

“Are you sure? About paying I mean. I should have enough.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. If it makes you feel any better I can steal a piece of yours to make up for me paying for it.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt you would.”

“You wound me.”

Hawke ordered the pizza in the kitchen, away from Dog who had a tendency to yap at telephones because he couldn’t tell where the voices were coming from. When he hung up Hawke stayed leaning on the counter for a while too long, the coolness of the faux marble on his forearms, watching the raindrops slice through their own walls of dotted silver.

“Damien Hurst.” He muttered to himself, the words barely above a breath. His lips stuck together as he spoke, in a wetted tongue kind of way.

Hawke dragged the old mattress from beneath his bed and put it on the frame in Fenris’ room before returning to the living room.

When the pizza arrived Hawke didn’t actually steal a piece of Fenris’. He ate his own, however, with the infamous starved Hawke vigour – cheese catching in his moustache and beard several times.

Fenris ate like the food was poisonous. He took small mouthfuls, chewed for a long time, and then waited before taking another bite. Hawke had eaten all of his by the time Fenris was on his third slice.

“You eat like you’ve been starved.” Fenris observed, wiping his mouth, all though Hawke was sure Fenris was the kind of eater who would never allow any of his food to end up on his face – no matter what the circumstance.

“Family trait.” Hawke laughed, letting Dog lick the grease off of his fingers, “The twins like to deny it’s one they share, but Carver can eat three burgers in five minutes and Bethany can take bigger mouthfuls than _me_.”

“I see.”

“You, on the other hand, eat like food is a strange alien substance.” Fenris paled at the observation, and Hawke found his tongue desperately trying to make up for his mistakes – as usual. “I mean, I noticed it at the Hanged Man last night as well. You…well, you didn’t seem too keen on the chicken and rice. I didn’t suppose it worth questioning there because their food is mediocre at best but this pizza is pretty good so I assumed – oh no, you do _like_ pizza, right? I didn’t inadvertently force you to eat anything did I?”

Fenris’ eyebrows were arched and his eyes wider than usual, though a nervous smile settled his lips. He set aside his unfinished pizza.

“I don’t dislike it, it’s simply not my favourite. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have asked for it if I didn’t want any.”

“Oh…okay.”

Fenris glanced to the clock on the living room wall, an old gold faced thing that squeaked when the hands moved. It was only quarter to eight, but the dark circles beneath Fenris’ eyes and the sandpaper scratch to his voice were enough to denote his tiredness.

He stood and excused himself for the night, stating that he would put the remainder of his pizza in the fridge before heading off for the night.

“Alright then, sleep well, Fenris.”

He replied only with a nod before slipping out of the living room, and Hawke felt on odd weight in his chest.

**Garrett (19:47)**

**Okay i feel kind of bad asking this but**

**Garrett (19:47)**

**What did you mean when you said fenris is a little messed up????????**

**Isabela (19:49)**

**oh BOY**

**Isabela (19:49)**

**well let me put it simply for u hawkey boy**

**Isabela: (19:49)**

**first of all fenny had the weirdest dreams EVER in college**

**Isabela (19:49)**

**literally when we studied together wed spend a lot of time talking about his wacky dreams and what they meant n all that stupid mumbo jumbo lmao**

**Isabela (19:50)**

**apparently it was his meds or smthng??? like idk i think he took some form of weird antidepressant and they made him a bit loopy**

**Isabela (19:50)**

**it was probably also a lil bit the weeds fault**

**Isabela (19:50)**

**mkay no it was a LOT the weeds fault**

Hawke read each text through carefully, thinking about Fenris and the way his eyebrows knitted together when he mentioned ‘bright lights’ in the car. Hawke instantly regretted sharing his dreams about Dog’s mishaps and the purchase of lettuce in dream Tesco.

 

**Garrett (19:51)**

**He mentioned the dreams to me on the way over**

**Garrett (19:51)**

**He actually seemed a bit nervous to tell me about them. i felt bad about asking**

**Isabela (19:52)**

**ya well if u think what he told u was bad then ur gonna love the stuff he levelled up to**

**Isabela (19:52)**

**so like basically we kept a little in touch after we graduated but we didnt talk all that much**

**Isabela (19:52)**

**which is a shame bc we’re totally biffles**

**Isabela (19:52)**

**anyway so about four months after he moved out to france with his bf he started texting me again**

**Isabela (19:53)**

**and he told me that hed stopped taking his meds but he was also smoking some new grass or smthng**

**Isabela (19:53)**

**and buddy lemme tell u it was giving him even weirder dreams than usual**

**Garrett (19:54)**

**What level of weird are we on here????**

**Garrett (19:54)**

**Like that one time i dreamt aveline had bought a car that looked like varric weird or that recurring dream merrill had about the talking potatoes**

**Isabela (19:55)**

**lmao hawkey they werent even humorous weird they were disturbing ‘i will haunt your every waking hour’ kind of weird**

Hawke ran a hand through his hair, still unwashed since that morning and greasy between his fingers. He regretted going out in such a state, but reading these texts made him feel less worry for himself and more for Fenris. He’d had no idea Fenris was on antidepressants – nor that the dreams he had were genuinely _troubling_ to him. His phone buzzed again and he kept reading.

 

**Isabela (19:56)**

**like im talking dreams about seeing himself getting hit by a car in a third person perspective and watching old roadkill drying up in the sun.**

**Isabela (19:56)**

**he used to tell me all about them in extreme detail and this 1 time he seemed rlly rlly strung up about one of em so i called him and ive never been that sure hawke but it sounded a lot like he was crying**

**Garrett (19:57)**

**Wow**

**Garrett (19:57)**

**I really…………………i really dont know what to say isabela**

**Garrett (19:57)**

**Is he better now????? do you know**

**Isabela (19:58)**

**im sorry kitten i dont**

**Isabela (19:58)**

**fenris has been a lot more discreet in the last year or so about his dreams**

**Isabela (19:58)**

**hed text me once or twice every two or so months last year???? idk how hes doing**

**Isabela (19:59)**

**i hope hes okay tho :((((((**

Hawke sat with his phone in his hands for a long while, eyes blurrily honing in on the descriptions of the sort of dreams Fenris was prone to having. Car accidents. Roadkill. Death, death, death it seemed. Hawke tapped out a quick ‘me too’ into the reply bar and shoved his phone back into his pocket.

Dog whimpered pathetically in Hawke’s lap, pawing at his legs with soft little pads. Hawke gave a half-hearted smile and scratched the old mutt’s ears. Dog spread out lazily.

The TV was a background buzz, white noise at the back of Hawke’s skull. Not even David Tennant’s wonderful voice could draw him back into his religious viewings of old Doctor Who reruns, and he sat rigid on the sofa as though someone had drawn the breath from his lungs. Only his fingers moved, working away at Dog’s head to keep him happy and quiet.

Hawke swore in that moment he could feel the universe turning around him.


	4. wet

On Sunday morning Hawke fumbled blearily - rising at noon - and started rather untremendously by eating his traditional weekend breakfast of an apple whilst showering. He inhaled quite a few fruity mouthfuls of warm water every now and then, but he somehow managed not to drown before finishing the apple and throwing the core riskily out the window. When he heard a hollow metal thud he went through a quick mental checklist of all the neighbours who would hate him if he got apple all over their cars.

He almost slipped in the bathtub when he stepped out, but he caught himself on the awful flowery wallpaper and managed to run the towel through his hair quickly before wrapping it around his waist and heading back up to his bedroom.

Dog lay very unhelpfully in front of the chest of drawers when Hawke tried to retrieve the hair dryer, and when the great lump refused to move he had to push him out of the way.

“You’re good for nothing but cuddles.” Hawke muttered as he plugged the hairdryer in, “Consider yourself lucky I like cuddles.”

Deciding he would take Dog on a walk when he felt up to it, Hawke dragged on a loose t-shirt and jogging bottoms that he could run in.

Hawke practically threw himself onto the sofa when he got downstairs, flicking through every possible channel on the TV before settling on an episode of You’ve Been Framed to settle his frazzled nerves.

It didn’t work.

However uplifting it may be to watch people fall flat on their faces for half an hour, Hawke finds himself growing uncomfortable. What Isabela said about Fenris had been preying on his mind, and even if he’d only known the man two days, something about the fact that said man was now living in his spare bedroom sent the nerves on Hawke’s spine aflame.

The tension almost made him combust when the living room door creaked open, revealing Fenris fully dressed, but stilled a little sleep mussed, with a thick ring bound book under his arms and a handful of odd looking pens. He was swaddled in a dark blue jumper, obviously not yet accustomed to Kirkwall’s aggressive autumn cold. His hair was charmingly messed up, parted wrong and falling in loose strands all around his face – Hawke wasn’t entirely convinced that an angel hadn’t just swept into his living room.

“I’m going for a bit of a walk and then I’ll be collecting my car from the motel.” Fenris explained, “I’ll probably be out for the rest of the day – I don’t want to bother you.”

Hawke’s mouth was open before he could even stop it,

“Oh, you’re not a bother. Actually I was thinking about taking Dog out for a walk, just because I was out all day yesterday and he only got a little jog in the park, I just felt like he hated me a little for it this morning. You wouldn’t mind if the hound and I tagged along would you?"

He wanted to punch himself.

Fenris in that moment seemed to resemble a confused, blushing statue. Though he shifted on his feet, moving weight from one outlet to another, his shoulders were still hiked stiffly and his bottom lip was caught between his teeth.

“I…I don’t see why not.” He said eventually, nervously tucking a chunk of hair behind his ear. His voice was hoarse and Hawke felt ashamed at the way it made his arm hair stand on end, “Where is the dog?”

Hawke pulled himself off the sofa, whistling sharply through two fingers stuck in his mouth. Fenris flinched at the noise.

A thunderous rumble of legs tumbling down the stairs proceeded, and Dog hurtled into the room like a missile, Fenris just barely staying upright.

“Well, he’s here now.”

The air outside was the kind of cold that feels palpable – as though clawing your hands through the nothingness would leave a hard, frozen residue on your skin. Hawke blew rings of misted breath like a dragon wrapped up in a puffer coat and big red scarf. Dog pattered ahead, his paws slapping against the frosted ground in quick, unforgiving succession. Fenris trailed silently, beside Hawke but only barely – like cigarette smoke hovering in the room, waiting for a window to be propped open.

Fenris, Hawke thought, was very much like smoke – an evanescent body of grey and white, impossible to hold onto, played with by the light and by the hands that swept through it in the vain attempt to rid themselves of its choking presence. Enchanting and dangerous. Beautiful and suffocating.

Fenris shivered visibly, running his free arm over the other. His book was still clutched under the other arm – Hawke assumed it was a sketchbook of some sort.

“I guess this must be quite the change from France then, huh?” Hawke said in an attempt to start up conversation. Stemmed and stilted conversation no doubt, but conversation nonetheless.

“Mm, I’ve known harsh cold before but never quite like this.” He pulled his collar up with barely shaking hands, slouching naturally into the warmth of his coat.

“Well if you don’t like the Kirkwall cold then just wait ‘til Kirkwall summer. You’ll be wishing it were still mid-November when you’re drowning in your own sweat.”

Fenris grimaced slightly but a chuckle escaped his lips anyway, a strained noise through that taught line,

“Pleasant.” He said, “Don’t you worry, I’m not afraid of a little respiration. Long nights in the south of France have prepared me for whatever summer has to throw at me.”

Hawke thought that sounded nice – long nights in the south of France. It was the sort of sentence that couldn’t help but conjure up images of fine, expensive wine poured into tall glasses, candles on old, withered porches, flickering in the waning moonlight. The sedate chirping of crickets, drunk on thick summer air. The swaying of the tall, dry grass.

“I went to France on a school trip when I was fourteen.” Hawke said, “We stayed on a farm and probably kept the owners awake all night with our incessant babbling.”

That trip would forever be among Hawke’s fondest memories, lodged carefully beside the long summers he spent with Carver and Bethany, and all of the camping trips he and his father used to take.

Hawke’s childhood had been one of rosy cheeks and muddy hands, unruly heads of curly hair having to be picked clean of leaves and twigs and other debris, scraped knees being plastered up and kissed better, sneaking cubes of Kendall Mint Cake to the twins from beneath the dinner table and chewing numbly on greasy Pontefract Cakes from Uncle Gamlen. The France trip had been a wild blur of all of these things, except the twins weren’t there, and the sweets he chewed beyond sight of the teachers he kept alone.

He remembered late at night, when violet summer dark was pouring through the open windows, he sat on the wide, whitewashed windowsill with three other boys, and they threw all the white midget gems out into the wide expanses of field – because no one liked the white ones. One of the throws had fallen short, and instead a wiry, grey haired cat had circled it where it lay on heat cracked earth. When the plastic packet had rustled, breaking the cricket laced quiet, the cat’s head had snapped up as though controlled by puppet strings. Its wide eyes reflected the glassy moonlight like two huge fifty pence pieces, and each boy had grown deathly silent at its accusing stare. No one dared move again until the cat had looked down, stalking off through the hedgerows.

The moment had stayed with him.

A single chatoyant gaze engraved into his mind like a mantra reminding him to behave in the small hours of the morning, and not disturb anyone who may also be trying to sleep. Not with rustling sweet packets and not with school boy antics.

“It’s still one of the best trips I’d ever been on. Lovely country, France is.”

“It is rather a nice place.” Fenris agreed, a mild mannered pull to his tone, “Though I don’t attach such…wholesome memories to it anymore.”

Hawke pretended to act like he didn't know anything.

“I think you said you moved there with a partner, right?”

Fenris nodded like he was moving through water, his movements slowed to a reluctant drag.

“It’s not something I like to dwell on.”

“Relationship went sour?”

“Something like that.”

Hawke felt like Fenris’ voice was completely disembodied being in comparison to the rest of him. His words carried such a story, such a tale to be told in their weight, yet he revealed so little with the words he chose. His face was a carefully blank slate, a mostly unresponsive mouth, big green doe eyes that made more mysteries than they uncovered, and eyebrows emotive in such an exaggerated way that there was little Hawke could tell from them that wasn’t comically overthought.

“Your dog seems to be disrespecting someone’s rose bush.” Fenris interjected softly.

Dog, indeed, was lifting his leg haughtily above a cluster of pink roses. He was finished by the time Hawke called out disapprovingly, and he trotted over with the smuggest look a dog could have.

“Bad boy.” Hawke tapped his nose firmly, “You can pee anywhere just not people’s flowers.”

“I’ve never met anyone so abject to the idea of urinating on flowers.”

“Maybe you just haven’t seen enough dogs decide a rose bush was a good place to do so.”

“Good point.”

When they neared the edge of Hawke’s street and the first tree of Pine Tree Tunnel loomed ominously, Fenris drew to a measured halt. Hawke paid close attention to the way Fenris shifted and swayed as he stopped, his feet moving back and forth. He stood so his toes were meeting the edge of the trees shadow exactly. He wished not to stand within the shadow, but at its cusp.

“Are you alright, Fenris?”

“I was just wondering…” Fenris’ eyes strayed to the road, following the chipping lines of yellow paint that marked the centre like a commander’s merits. “Are there are any walks through those pines? Like footpaths or anything.”

“Nope,” Hawke laughed, “It’s all hit or miss in there. There is a picnic table somewhere on the right side, but you need to do a bit of trekking to find it. That might be fun though, if it’s the kind of walk you were hoping for. Dog loves it in there.”

“Alright then.” Fenris sounded oddly decided, and took wide strides towards the Pine Tree Tunnel. Hawke quickened his pace and whistled Dog over, as he’d conveniently disappeared into another clump of rose bushes.

“I’ll warn you,” Hawke said as he lifted a large sweep of collapsed pine branches. “You have to be ready to face very low hanging branches and not be particularly against having pine needles sticking to you.”

Fenris took his sketchbook into two hands, clutching it with a grin Hawke hadn’t thought possible on such a melancholy face.

“The artist must suffer for art, must they not?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hawke laughed, “I’m no artist.”

In the end it didn’t take long at all to find the bench, and Hawke felt a little embarrassed that he’d admitted he personally found it hard to locate. Dog leapt around the bench euphorically, his stump tail wagging at the speed of light.

“Yes, yes.” Hawke chuckled as Dog ran mercilessly filthy paws all over his trousers, “Yes, well done, you found the table. Good boy.”

Hawke, stick in hand to throw for Dog, and Fenris took a seat beside each other on the bench, and Hawke did an awful job of pretending he wasn’t looking at Fenris’ sketchbook. In a moment of childish hope – ignited by the side eyes and subtle smile that Fenris had slipped him – Hawke wondered if Fenris flicked through the book for him. For his eyes only, the gentle wafting of old pages simply so Hawke could intrude on his work. Though only for a few seconds, Hawke picked out some incredibly distinct images.

A dead goat for one, seemingly splayed out and rotting on a roadside, marker pen blood pooling like thick cranberry juice either side of its split head. Another was a page full of studies of the French flag – sometimes in full flight, wrinkles and creases almost invisible, other times when the wind was low, and it sagged around the flag pole in a sad, deflated way. On a page near the beginning stared out a half coloured portrait of a girl who looked almost identical to Isabela, with bright brown eyes and long, frazzled hair. Hawke made a mental note to ask Isabela if she’d ever posed for Fenris to draw.

The ink drawings of the man were the strongest image.

Scribbled out in red biro, of course the black lines were still visible through the veil of what looked like a child’s futile scrawls. The visibility of the drawings, though coated in red, was almost as if to say: I happened, but I no longer matter.

The drawings were all of the same man, angular face; small, harsh eyes; a pointedly clipped beard; a nose like a shattered eagle’s beak. Hawke felt discomfort stir at the bottom of his stomach when he saw them. Fenris flicked past that page far quicker than the others.

When he settled on a blank page, Fenris pulled out a long, brush like pen from the veritable bounty he had brought with him. He drew on the page with languid strokes, piling them upon each other in thick and thin lines.

Hawke threw the stick for Dog, who had been waiting patiently beside the bench for at least five minutes.

“I love places like this.” Fenris said, so quietly Hawke felt like he was hearing something not meant for his ears – though everything Fenris said felt confidential. “Places not far from civilisation, but seem so far away…so cut off from reality.”

Hawke watched Dog scrabble clumsily after the stick, searching for it on the needle cloaked ground.

“I also just love pine trees.” He gave an airy chuckle, and Hawke leant over to see a small pine tree coming to life on Fenris’ page. Hawke gave a low whistle. “…What?”

“That’s the best drawing of a tree I’ve ever seen.”

Fenris’ cheeks grew dark, his shoulders bunched around his ears.

“Obviously you haven’t seen many people drawing trees.”

“True, but I’m still pretty sure if I got anyone to draw a tree for me this one would still look better.”

Fenris gave a low laugh, the awkwardness in it so painfully endearing that Hawke swore he felt his heart beat a little faster at the sound of it. He felt bad for becoming so invested in a childish crush so early – but Fenris was nice and pretty and his voice was like nothing Hawke had ever heard before and God he’d known Fenris for two days and he already wanted him so bad.

“…Did you have one of your odd dreams last night?” Hawke ventured, hoping Fenris remembered the car conversation.

Fenris nodded slowly, clustering more trees tightly together onto his page.

“I rarely go a night without one.” He said, “It was a TV set to a static channel last night. That was it. Just a busted up old television that refused to turn off no matter how many times I pressed the button.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.”

When Fenris had drawn almost an entire forest over a two page spread, and Dog had stopped fetching the stick when it was thrown, the three of them moved from the bench, and headed back the way they came. Fenris mentioned walking around town to help get himself used to the place, and Hawke agreed that it was a good idea.

“Have you eaten today yet? I don’t think I heard you get any breakfast.” Hawke let his inner mother hen loose when they reached the edge of town and a man holding a very large baguette walked past them. He was slightly jealous – that baguette looked good.

“Well I…I thought it wrong to eat your food whilst staying in your house without even paying rent.” Fenris coughed into his fisted hand, adjusting the hold of his sketchbook under his arm. “I planned on getting something now. A sandwich or pastry or whatever I can find.”

“If it’s pastries you like there’s an excellent bakery next to the WHSmiths.” Hawke said, veering a sharp corner and pointing up the highstreet. “Everyone calls it Gregs even though it’s not one. It’s one of those independent ‘off-chain’ places owned by a family. Their cinnamon buns truly are the best thing I’ve ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth.”

Fenris laughed slightly at that, and Hawke only realised why when he went over his particular use of wording.

Hawke brought a cream doughnut from the bakery and Fenris got a cheese and ham baguette. Hawke found himself jealous of someone’s baguette for the second time in one day.

“So, Hawke.” Fenris said through a mouthful of ham and cheese, “You know this town better than I do. Where do you suggest I go to get a taste of this place?”

Hawke took a thoughtful bight of his cream doughnut, giving his beard a once over to ensure no cream or powder had become ensnared.

“Well, in all honesty, if you want to get to know Kirkwall you have to go to the weird places. Like, no quiet little book shops or cafes or whatever.” Fenris gave Hawke a curious look, and Hawke continued, “There’s a ditch where apparently a dead body was thrown three years ago but no one cared to look to see if it was actually there or not. There’s this place in the woods that’s supposed to get super foggy at night and apparently it’s dangerous to camp there. Kirkwall sure is…a treasure trove of oddities.”

Hawke laughed, taking another bite of his doughnut, “Morbid…but colourful.”

“Hmm.” Fenris brushed the crumbs from his coat. “Isabela told me there used to be a pirate’s smuggling ring near the coast here, back in the Victorian era.”

“How the hell does she know that?”

“She’s always been oddly obsessed with pirates.” Fenris laughed, a deep, sandpapery noise that made the hairs on Hawke’s neck stand on end, “It was the inspiration for her first design assignment back in college. She did all sorts of extensive research into it. Every time there was a Halloween party we’d bet on whether or not she’d be dressing as one for it and she always would.”

“It was probably the Wounded Coast she was telling you about.” Hawke explained, whistling to Dog who’d run too far ahead by himself, “It’s one of those beaches that’s nicer in the autumn than it is in summer. Something with all that blustery sea air or whatever. It’s a bit of a drive from here but a great place to go if you want some good, fresh air. Well, if you forget about the journey there, that is.”

“What’s so bad about the journey?” Fenris dropped a good natured hand to Dog’s head, giving his ears a ruffle. Dog barked affectionately and sat himself at Fenris’ feet.

“Well the road is the first problem,” Hawke said in a moment of exasperated recollection, “Has more potholes than any other road I can think of – it could probably kill a car if it were old and souped up enough. Then there’re all the dodgy petrol stations on the way up. One out of three is an actual petrol station that will sell you real fuel and all the rest have crude oil or something that will really mess up your engine.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Yeah, always best to fill up on petrol before making that journey.” Hawke laughed.

They walked further a little longer, stopping once so Hawke could retie his shoe laces and once again to throw their wrappers in the bin. When they neared the gates to the park, instinct hit Dog in the back of the head like a missile and he rocketed towards them with his gangly legs and too big paws.

“Do you want to go into the park?” Hawke scratched Dog’s cheeks as he caught up, “Do you? Do you want to go for a run?”

Dog barked back as if he understood what Hawke was saying. His tail thumped against the ground and Hawke looked over his shoulder to Fenris,

“I’ll take the old lump in here for a run. You can do whatever - go look around the shops if you like, unless you’d like to just have a walk around the park.”

Fenris nodded, adjusting the sketchbook under his arm, “I’ll find a bench to sit. You go ahead.”

Hawke said he wouldn’t be any longer than half an hour or so, and gave Fenris his coat so that he wouldn’t die of heatstroke in the middle of November.

When Dog ran, he ran. Sometimes even Hawke found it hard to keep up with the flurrying whirlwind of red fur and slobbering jowls. Over the years they had come to understand each other’s habits well, even if Dog was literally a dog – a kind of stupid one at that - and probably had no idea he was even doing it. Hawke knew when he should speed up or slow down, and Dog seemed to do it automatically. Sometimes Hawke felt a little upset that his dog had to adjust his speed for him to catch up, as if Hawke was the one who was a pet.

They ran in loops around the park, Hawke passed Fenris where he sat at a neglected old park bench. Hawke thought of all the awful etchings of initials and crudely drawn caricatures in that old, damp wood. He thought of all the grotty teenagers, with their fingers clawed around cigarettes and heads low in hoodies and backwards caps, who had sat at that bench. He thought of how misplaced Fenris was, replacing mindless vandalism and underage smoking with gallery worthy artwork and a history of tripping on exotic plants. He found himself almost running into park equipment several times, his eyes too focused on Fenris, tucked away in that little corner of the park, thrown into the shadow of a naked birch tree, its sad, brown leaves littering the floor. He tried to imagine that it wasn’t coincidence that Fenris looked his way several times.

“You look like you need a rest.” Fenris said as Hawke drew to a halt, his chest heaving as he leant against the creaking wood. Dog fell to the floor panting and slobbering and looking almost as though he were grinning. Hawke gave him a twisted smirk.

“You’re probably right.” A trembling sigh heaved its way out of Hawke, and he sat at the bench, glistening, his skin damp.

There was another heart skip moment when Hawke caught Fenris’ eyes lingering over his arms and chest. Hawke felt childish, but what he could also feel was the undeniable electric crackle in the space between them. It was a thickness, an inescapable tangibility of underdeveloped emotions. They had known each other the best part of two days, there was no love there yet, no desire or heart aching longing. What was there, however, was the fire fuelled acknowledgement of mutual attraction. It was the first stage concept of, “This is a good face.” And Hawke had it bad, boiling in the pit of his stomach like a hungry, lustful bear.

“There’s a little ice cream shop up at the top of the park,” Hawke grabbed his wallet from the pocket of his jogging bottoms, rifling through the cards and spare change that littered it he grabbed a five pound note and handed it to Fenris, “Could you go up to it and buy me a Gatorade please? Get yourself whatever you want whilst you’re there.”

Fenris nodded, rising from the table and making his way toward the small brick building that Hawke had helpfully pointed out with a very sweaty finger. He had left his sketch book open on the table.

Hawke suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of curiosity and guilt – it didn’t stop his eyes from wandering toward the expertly inked pages.

The first thing he saw was a rushed sketch of Dog, wobbly lines in a variety of thickness and thinness made up the familiar blobby, wrinkly form. His fur was hatched in tiny, red lines – Hawke spotted the red fine liner uncapped on the other page of the book.

There were other drawings, observations of other people in the park – the woman who was walking her dalmatian beside the pond; the boys who were kicking around a flat football; a little girl and her father eating ice cream. Even a few ducks graced the pages with their glassy eyes and ruffled feathers, but what caught Hawke’s eyes the most were the vague, non-descript scribbles of a figure in motion.

Definitely more of an observation of placement than figure or features, but the anatomy of the scribbly figure jogging around the right hand page was unmistakably Hawke’s own.

He felt accomplished, recognised in some way, now that he saw himself – if a crude rendition – on the pages of Fenris’ sketchbook. This was the same book in which he suspected Isabela had sat to be sketched; the same book that had travelled to France to see the tricolour be studied endless times all over its pages; the same book that held the glazed eyes of a long dead goat, no doubt one that had haunted Fenris’ dreams many a night.

Hawke could only bring himself to tear his eyes when he heard footsteps approaching over the grass.

Fenris placed a bottle of blue Gatorade and a handful of change on the table before Hawke. Hawke gave him a grateful nod and uncapped the bottle, chugging half of it in one go.

He wiped his mouth of any remnants and tilted his head,

“Did you not get anything for yourself?”

“I wasn’t thirsty.”

“Fair enough.”

The skies were beginning to look like wide sheets of slate by the time they left the park, and though their path toward the motel led them away from the slowly falling rain, they couldn’t escape the earthy, damp darkness that seemed to linger everywhere in November. The walk was an achingly long one, almost forty five minutes, and by the time they reached Fenris’ beat up old car, sitting tired and unloved in the almost empty motel car park, it was quarter to four.

“Where the hell has today gone.” Hawke sighed witheringly into his hands, pulling the seatbelt to its very limit over his chest as he buckled himself in. Dog had jumped enthusiastically onto the back seat, and fell asleep as soon as his head hit his paws. Fenris checked his mirrors feverishly, tweaking and checking where he saw fit. He started the car with a throaty grumble, and the decrepit vehicle seemed to mimic his noises perfectly.

“Sundays.” Fenris muttered, “They’re always like that.”

Hawke nodded, as Sundays always did seem to go far too quickly, the shadow of Monday looming imperiously over them. Hawke leant generously on the door, his forehead pressed to the window.

“I’m going to stop at the petrol station down the road.” Fenris said as the windscreen wipers erupted into life, sweeping away walls of silvery drops.

Damien Hurst came to mind.

“Is that alright?”

“Of course.” Hawke replied, “Christ on a bike, it looks like the middle of the night outside…”

“Autumn.” Fenris’ voice had reverted to that gruff, ‘I don’t enjoy talking to you’ tone that had seemed so far away today. Hawke felt a surge in his chest when remembered the fleeting half smiles or poorly hidden glances at his torso. “It’s always the same.”

“I assume it must have been different in France.” Hawke said, “It being a warm country and all.”

“Hmm, it wasn’t all that different...” Fenris said, turning the wheel suddenly and swerving into the petrol station, as if by instinct rather than choice. “It was lighter in the summer.”

As the car rolled beneath the canopy of the petrol station the hammering of rain drops ceased to echo seamlessly through the interior of the car. The atmosphere became instead one of oppressing silence. Fenris got out of the car. Hawke followed, reluctant to be alone inside the car.

There was no one else at the station – the only noise the soft creak of petrol nozzles and the patter of rain on the steel canopy above.

Hawke felt brave for a second, asking a question he knew would strike a chord,

“Do you ever miss France?”

Painful silence, and then:

“In some ways.” Fenris’ tone was barely above a whisper, “There are others for which I’d rather die than return.”

There was an awful sadness there, his voice ringing with a harsh emptiness that was somehow more haunting than the petrol station’s natural, eerie silence. Hawke could hear the stories heavy in his words, the experience, the knowledge, the hurt that cursed each syllable of speech that tumbled forth from Fenris’ lips.

Except the way Fenris spoke wasn’t in a tumbling motion, not like Hawke’s own words were. He could try to compare him to any one of his friends, but he wasn’t like them – Isabela spoke as if constantly trying to butter you up, bribing you with her sugary sweet words and fluttering eyelashes; Varric spoke like a well-rehearsed actor, script in hand, his speech never straying from practice and perfection.

Fenris didn’t speak like that.

He spoke in such a human way – so raw and unrelenting. All the gloss was ripped off, something that could have been so shiny and pure now tarnished, bare and dull. There was a fetor to his words, decay evident in the cracks of his voice, the hidden meanings that festered like a nest of maggots. Were prose a dead rodent, Fenris would be rat poison, the reason talking to him was like feeling yourself crumble away in strips and clumps.

Trenchfoot, it was like, except it was all over Hawke’s body, and it made him squirm and writhe and think sinful _sinful_ things. But he loved it. He loved it beyond any noise that had wrung through his bones.

Fenris wasn’t facing Hawke anymore and, leaning on the car door, his hip pressing against the handle, he watched with a perverse interest. His hair – a random observation – seemed to bleed. So pale that it almost absorbed the colours around it, the reflection of red traffic lights and red petrol pumps and red advertising signs threw a pink stain over his locks. Hawke watched the colours move in turn with Fenris, shifting as he did, changing to fit the turn of his body. He paid at the pump rather than going into the station, and crawled back into the car with little attention paid to Hawke, who continued to nervously assess the situation.

There was an overhanging sense of I’ve gone too far and Hawke could feel it in the space that felt so bitter, the space that held a tenseness it hadn’t before. Hawke picked his nails profusely on the drive home, licking his lips like a drought was near, his heart hammering.

Fenris didn’t stay downstairs for dinner that night, and Hawke sat alone in the kitchen, stirring noodles around in a bowl as Dog stretched on the floor. There was no good night from Fenris, no returning downstairs to grab or drink or a snack.

Hawke went to bed feeling heavy, and sank into the mattress expecting to drown.


	5. warm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early chapter because i may not be able to upload tomorrow. enjoy.

The morning remained damp and dark, the fog crawling over the asphalt in thick white droves, and the day continued in a similar manner. It was horror movie weather – when the headlamps of cars slice through the mist in tapered spears and pick apart the world ahead piece by piece. Hawke felt like collapsing on his bus journey home, just barely staying upright in his seat. It wouldn’t matter much if he did just flat out lie down – only a pair of old ladies and a girl in her gym kit would have seen.

Fenris had left a note taped to the kitchen cupboard that morning, his handwriting an almost undecipherable scrawl, “Out with Isabela. Back this evening.” Hawke had been unable to read it at first, and spent at least half a minute squinting at it before it hit him. By the time he’d figured out just what was trying to be conveyed his head was spinning.

His phone buzzed.

 

**Merrill (18:16)**

**Good evening hawke!!!**

**Merrill (18:16)**

**I know that youve probably only just finished work but i wanted to ask a favour**

**Garrett (18:17)**

**Hi merrill what did you need????**

**Merrill (18:17)**

**Well i was just wondering if youd be able to pop down to the shop this evening**

**Merrill (18:17)**

**I understand if you cant but if you can it would be wonderful :^)**

**Merrill (18:17)**

**I need some help with some heavy lifting is all**

Hawke ran a hand through his hair; Merrill was lovely, but he could almost feel his arms objecting to the prospect of heavy lifting. He regretted not getting help from mother and Anders to carry those boxes into the basement. Being a lumberjack and therefore spending all day doing heavy labour didn’t help much either.

 

**Garrett (18:18)**

**Thats fine!!! I may not be much help but ill come down if you really need me to**

**Garrett (18:18)**

**When would you need me?????**

**Merrill (18:18)**

**Any time would be fine really, just not too late of course**

**Garrett (18:19)**

**Half seven???**

**Merrill (18:19)**

**That sounds fine!!!! :^))))))**

Hawke’s phone buzzed twice as his bus stopped. There was a light patter of drizzle outside, and he was reluctant to get his hair damp. His house wasn’t far from his stop, he’d survive. Probably.

His phone buzzed again – thrice, in succession.

“Why am I so loved…” he muttered as he began making his way down to his street.

 

**Isabela (18:28)**

**im outside ur house**

**Garrett (18:28)**

**Why are you stalking me**

**Isabela (18:28)**

**LMAO U WISH**

**Isabela (18:29)**

**i was dropping fenny back**

**Isabela (18:29)**

**also did u not realise he would need a key**

**Isabela (18:29)**

**weve been here for like 20 mins waiting for u**

**Garrett (18:30)**

**Oh thats a good point**

**Garrett (18:30)**

**Wait stop texting me I can see you**

**Isabela (18:30)**

**dont tell me what to do**

Hawke slipped his phone back into his pocket as he approached the sleek blue car that was parked outside his house. Isabela had expensive tastes, and her car was no exception, with its fancy European make that Hawke couldn’t pronounce the name of, and the long, thin headlights that made it look like an aquamarine cat. This car was too good for Kirkwall.

“Garry!” Isabela greeted out the window of her car, leaning out like a Jack-in-the-Box with a loose spring. A red, faux fur scarf was hanging off of her neck as though she’d slug eight foxes there for decoration.

“Never call me Garry.” Hawke laughed as he jogged to his door, unlocking it and gesturing to the unlit hallway within. “Got time for a cuppa?”

Isabela swung her legs out of the car in the most extravagant way possible, adjusting her coat buttons and tottering towards Hawke on boots with heels that could pierce a man’s heart. Fenris followed suit, tugging at his collar nervously.

“As long as you have that jasmine tea that makes me sleepy.” She said, “I love that stuff.”

Hawke locked the door after the two of them, hanging his coat up on the rack – he avoided letting it touch Isabela’s too much, he felt as though if his shabby old puffer coat so much as _ghosted_ against that no doubt designer tan cape coat he would probably explode.

“What were you two doing today then?” Hawke asked as he filled up the kettle. He could hear Isabela rifling through his cupboards for the jasmine tea.

“I showed Fenris my shop, then we went for coffee and Fenris did some drawing.” Isabela said as she slapped a packet of teabags onto the counter. “It was quite nice actually. Fenris taught me some French.”

“You speak French?” Hawke said inquisitively, collecting three mugs from the cupboard and putting a teabag in each.

“Well I did live in France.” Fenris said, aloof as he smoothed out a page of his sketchbook. A few old Polaroid photos were stuck to the top of it.

“Good point.”

Hawke heaped two teaspoons of sugar into his tea, whilst Isabela stirred God knows how many sweeteners into her own along with about a gallon of milk. Fenris took his black, and Hawke shared an uncertain look with Isabela over the kitchen table.

“So,” Isabela grinned over the edge of her mug, “Fenris was telling me about how he wanted to do a bit of _sightseeing_ whilst in Kirkwall.” She placed her mug down after a sizeable gulp and laced her fingers together in her lap, “And when he mentioned the Wounded Coast I decided that we just _have_ to go on a little trip together.”

“Where?” Hawke asked.

Isabela gave him a blank look.

“Where do you _think_ , Hawke?” Fenris sighed into his tea.

“Oh! Oh, the Wounded Coast, of course.” Hawke reddened slightly, hiding behind his mug, “…Why though?”

Isabela took another long sip and reclined lazily, like a smug cat stretching over his kitchen furniture.

“Well if Fenris is only going to be here for a few months I thought we might as well make him welcome by doing some fun stuff.” Isabela began all smiles and cheer, but continued with a slight cough and sly eyebrow raise, “And also I want to go to the Wounded Coast to complete my pirate aesthetic.”

“I’d like to get a few studies done.” Fenris said gruffly, dragging a pen lazily across his sketchbook page in a back and forth motion. “I don’t get to draw oceans often.”

“I don’t see why you want me to go though.” Hawke stared intently at a cluster of bubbles gathering at the edge of his mug, “I mean, not that I wouldn’t _like_ to go but…you know, you guys are good friends. I thought maybe you’d want to spend some time together. Alone.”

“Well don’t you think it would help for the two of you to bond a bit?” Isabela asked, bobbing her leg sedately up and down.

The rhythmic tapping of Isabela’s heel on the kitchen floor coincided with the glazed flick of Fenris’ eyes meeting Hawke’s. There was a tug to his lips that Hawke couldn’t place to any emotion – there was a distinct irritation there, but no lack of amusement, certainly.

Hawke had never been more intimidated by anyone in his life.

“I mean, if you’re _living_ together now it would make more sense for you to be better friends – wouldn’t it?”

Fenris shrugged in a noncommittal sort of way, Hawke bit his lower lip.

Isabela groaned.

“ _Men_. You’re so _awkward_. I’m going to pee.” She rose from her seat and swaggered out to the hallway, her heel clicks slowly fading as she reached the downstairs bathroom.

The silence hung heavy and thick, like the fog outside, painted yellow by streetlights as the quiet was icy with Fenris’ eyes, glaring down at his sketchbook.

“Ahem,” Hawke started, lifting his mug to his lips, “I, uh, I feel like maybe I stepped over a line yesterday.”

Fenris put his pen down silently, leaning towards the table and lifting his eyebrow as if urging for Hawke to continue.

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Hawke breathed out slowly, building up his nerve, “You seemed really uncomfortable after I brought up France. I’m sorry, Fenris, I had no right to ask about your ex or whatever I was just - I was…prodding, I guess. That’s my only defence really; I’m just a curious person.”

Fenris ran his thumb over the edge of the mug, his eyes lingering on the trail he left on the crockery.

“I’m really sorry.” Hawke repeated softly.

“It’s alright.” Fenris sat up, closing his sketchbook decidedly as he brought his mug into his lap. He sighed quietly as it warmed his hands, “It wasn’t your fault, not really. I’m just, bitter, shall we say. Bitter, unforgiving and a little touchy on the subject.”

“I’m sure you have good reason.”

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“I’d like to put a little faith in you.”

Fenris laughed gently, draining the last of his tea from his mug and placing the empty mug beside the sink.

“It’s sweet that you trust me knowing so little.” Fenris said, his voice quiet, faraway sounding. “I have a painting to finish, I’ll go out to fetch dinner when I’m done.”

Fenris left the kitchen like a sweep of autumn air, Isabela filling his space in mere seconds.

“Where’s he off to?” Isabela asked as she returned to her seat.

“Painting.” Hawke replied.

“Artists, they’re so mysterious.” Isabela faked a swooning as she picked up her tea, she too chucked it back in a long swig, placing it beside Fenris’ own abandoned mug. “Now, I must be off, Hawkey darling, but we should talk about the Wounded Coast Trip again.”

She retrieved her coat and scarf from the rack and slipped them on in a way that almost seemed artistic. Standing in the doorway she looked like a model from the twenties, except the fur that hung from her shoulders was just about as authentic as the stag head hanging on Hawke’s living room wall.

“It’s best to see it in the evening and morning because the sky is simply _gorgeous_ so if we head out in the afternoon to see the sunset, we can stay at the hotel up there and _then_ see the sunrise as well. Sound good?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, definitely.” Hawke hadn’t processed much of that, but let Isabela out like the gentleman he was, watching her walk to her car. “Just, um, text me about it or whatever.”

“I will, Garry, don’t you worry.” She laughed over the low rumble of her engine.

“Don’t call me Garry!!” he called after the car disappearing down his street. “…Garry isn’t my name.”

Hawke left for Merrill’s shop at quarter past seven, parking up in the Tesco car park. He walked the rest of the way, aware that there would be little space to park in the high street – damp hair was a small price to pay.

Merrill had owned her florist for the best part of three months, discovering the small shop for let, tucked away in a dingy corner of the high street, and instantly falling in love with the decrepit old place. She’d done it up reasonably well, giving the weak wood a new lick of green paint, refitting the windows with glass that wasn’t chipped and dusty. The inside was still under construction, the slabs on the ceiling loose at the corners. The strip lights still flickered sporadically.

The door jingled as he entered, Merrill having been sweet enough to actually install the small bell that graced every old movie and bad sitcom. Merrill was sitting at the desk, ankles crossed and fussing away at a pot of geraniums.

“Evening, Merrill.”

“Hello Hawke!” Merrill grinned, pushing aside the pot and removing her apron. She gave Hawke a fleeting hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Thank you ever so much for popping down, I would only have been able to lift a few of these boxes on my own.”

She made her way to a dark green door at the back of the shop, partly hidden by several branches of sword lilies and hydrangeas. She grabbed an empty cardboard box from the floor and kicked the door open with her heel.

“They’re just here, out back.” She said, “Grab a box would you, Hawke.”

“Alrighty.”

The back room was the same as any break room at a shop, bleak white walls and bare cupboards. A half empty cup of water sat on the countertop, and Merrill drank it all quickly before gathering pots into the box.

“I got a big order from the garden centre today and I wanted to get them out as soon as possible.” She explained, “They’ll die too soon otherwise.”

Hawke placed some pots into his own box, hoisting it onto his shoulder as he followed Merrill.

“Are you…are you sure, Merrill? These pots don’t seem too heavy at all.”

“Oh no, you haven’t seen the others.” She giggled, kneeling down in front of her window display. She took each pot from the box one by one, placing them within the bushels of decorative leaves and artificial daisies. “I’ve got some huge spider plants out there, and a lot of heavy ceramic pots too. I could take a few of them, but my doctor told me not to put too much strain on my shoulder since I pulled it the other week.”

The ceramic pots were indeed a lot heavier than they looked, and Hawke was red in the face by the time they’d brought everything out to the front. His forehead was damp with perspiration, but he was only barely sweating.

“Merrill!” he called into the back room, rubbing his hands together, “Where do you want this last one? There’s not much room around where I put the other ones.”

“Just leave it by the bouquet rack!” Merrill appeared in the door, leaning against the frame on her good shoulder. “Phew, time for a drink I think. Would you like a glass of juice, Hawke?”

“Orange or grape?” Hawke asked as he followed Merrill back into the back room. He sat at the table, resting heavily on his elbows.

“Grape.” Merrill said, shaking the carton as she pulled it from the small fridge below the counter. “I always have a supply because I know it’s your favourite.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you.”

Merrill placed two small glasses of grape juice on the table, taking her seat opposite Hawke. She smiled as Hawke threw back almost half the glass in one.

“Thirsty are we?” she giggled, taking small sips.

“Well, I mean, I feel like a steamed broccoli right now.”

“That’s a good simile.”

“Thank you.”

“So, Isabela told me that her friend moved into your spare room,” Merrill tucked a few strands of wispy hair behind her ears, pouting when they immediately fell loose again, “What was his name again, um…Frederick? Ferris?”

“Fenris.” Hawke corrected, and finished off the last of his juice, sighing as he leant heavily back into his chair.

“Oh yes that’s right.” Merrill nodded, “And how is he settling in? He seemed a bit odd when he had dinner at the Hanged Man.”

Hawke scratched his beard thoughtfully. He knew better than to simply spill every squalid detail he knew about Fenris, but he thought there was no harm in agreeing that, _yes_ , Fenris was a bit weird.

“He’s seen a lot.” Hawke decided on condensing it all, “I don’t think he’s a particularly happy person really. But, yeah, he’s a bit strange. He’s nice though – if a little blunt.”

Hawke made vague small talk for a while longer, before realising Fenris was probably wondering where he was, and excusing himself. Merrill gave him a parting gift of a small potted cactus, and waved him out of the shop saying,

“A house warming gift for Fenris!”

Hawke glanced at the small pot every now and then, sitting in the cup holder beside a week old can of orange soda. He had no idea if Fenris would like a cactus or not – it was small…and prickly…a bit like him really.

He made a mental note not to compare Fenris to potted plants to his face.

The house felt strangely empty when Hawke got home.

The kitchen and front hall had the faint smell of cooking, and he noticed a plate had been left in the microwave. Another note in awful handwriting was stuck the microwave door,

_Picked up sausages and mash from Tesco. Left this for you_.

Smiling gently to himself, Hawke punched in 1:30 minutes on the keypad and made his way upstairs as the microwave hummed.

He knocked gently on Fenris’ door. He heard a muffled,

“Come in.”

And pushed the door open with his foot.

“Hey.” Hawke said.

“Hi.” Fenris replied, not turning to Hawke. He was crouched over the desk, sheets of dated newspapers protecting the table and carpet as he layered paint onto his canvas. Hawke couldn’t see what Fenris was painting – not from this angle – but there was an abundance of pink, fleshy tones, and a backlight seemingly drowning the image in a gentle, violet hue.

“Thanks for the dinner.” Hawke said awkwardly, and Fenris threw him a sideways glance.

“That’s alright.”

“Uh, do you remember Merrill? When we had dinner at The Hanged Man?”

Fenris leant back in his seat, holding the wooden point of his paintbrush to his lips.

“Isabela told me about everyone…the name rings a bell. Was she the red haired girl or the small one? With the black hair?”

“Black hair.” Hawke nodded, “The red haired one is Aveline. Anyhow!” Hawke placed the cactus that he’d been holding behind his back with a knuckle whitening grip gently on the desk and grinned, “I just went to her shop and she wanted you to have this as a housewarming gift. She’s a florist. She has…odd tastes.”

Fenris put his brush down and picked up the cactus, eyeing it with an uncertain, curling smile.

“Not the sort of housewarming gift I’m used to. Not that I can say I’m used to them at all.” Fenris placed it down beside a large palette of smeared earthy coloured paints. “Tell her thank you from me. It adds a bit of charm in a…strange way.”

Hawke gave a good natured nod, and left Fenris to his own business, pulling the door shut gently.

 

**Garrett (20:47)**

**Fenris says thank you for the cactus!!!**

**Merrill (20:48)**

**Im glad he likes it!!! :^)**


	6. saint

On Wednesday evening, Hawke found Fenris pacing the living room, muttering to himself, and causing a great confusion for Dog, who followed him as he walked back and forth.

“Are you alright?” Hawke asked through a mouthful of peach melba yoghurt, “You’ll wear a hole through the floor in a minute.”

Fenris paused, looking up at Hawke as his cheeks darkened. He sat himself down on the sofa, Dog yapping and jumping into his lap. Fenris scratched at his ears.

“Yes. Sorry. I’m fine. Really, I’m just a little…” Fenris glanced at the clock on the wall, “I’ve got awful art block I can’t think of…anything. I’ve left a painting half-finished because I have no _ideas_.”

He leant back into the sofa, sinking gently into the cushions as though a small weight had been dropped onto his shoulders. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“I need to get out more.” he muttered.

Hawke laughed and rested against the door frame, stirring the yoghurt with his spoon.

“We could go out for a drink if you want. Or maybe a walk – I could show you some of those weird places I told you about.”

Fenris looked up suddenly, tucking a lock of hair behind his ears and raising an eyebrow. Hawke felt his stomach flip a little bit. Fenris was far too attractive for his own good.

“What was that you told me about the alleged murder?” Fenris began wringing his fingers frantically, as though the artistic cogs in his brain had just begun to spring back into life. Hawke spooned another mouthful of yoghurt into his mouth.

“The ditch where there’s supposed to be a body or something? No one really knows if that’s _true_ but everyone kind of assumes.” Hawke grinned, “Should I be worried that you’re so intensely interested in something so morbid?”

“My dreams have numbed me by this point.” Fenris explained, and stood from the sofa, “I’ll get my coat – I can drive us there if you tell me where to go.”

As Fenris thundered upstairs to get his coat, Hawke finished off his yoghurt and threw the pot in recycling. He took his own coat from the rack and zipped it up to his chin. It wasn’t raining that evening, but the fog was thick and cold; he wouldn’t dare go out in weather like this without it.

Fenris reappeared with his coat hanging from his arm and his car keys jangling in his hand. He’d gathered his hair back into a loose bun, and Hawke watched in amusement at the thin wisps of hair that fell in front of his eyes.

“Ready?” Fenris asked, pulling his coat on.

“Yep.”

Fenris’ car always seemed cold enough to freeze food. Hawke felt like a raw leg of lamb being stored in the fridge for Sunday dinner as he crammed his legs into the tight space between the seat and dashboard. He was jealous of Fenris for being so small of stature – not having to jam his limbs together to fit in the car comfortably. He rested his head on the window and watched the raindrops gather like a Hirst painting.

“…once you come out of Pine Tree tunnel don’t turn towards the town hall, keep going straight.” Hawke explained as the trees drowned out the light in the car, “It’s about a ten minute drive through the woods until you come to this place with a lot of old fences and barbed wire. It looks like it was supposed to be sanctioned off but kids go down there all the time and no one seems to care.”

“Does that make us kids then?” Fenris muttered as he peered into the thickening fog. It was almost impossible to see anything three foot ahead.

“Very big kids.” Hawke laughed, “Big, hairy kids with jobs.”

Fenris’ laugh escaped as breath through his nose, and he turned on his headlights. The fog became a ghostly blue and Hawke felt compelled to zip his coat up higher – even if it was right up at the chin.

“Sometimes I’m not far from wondering if this place is haunted.” Hawke admitted, a dry tone to his voice. His hands skittered nervously across his trousers, finding the loose thread on the outer seam and tugging at it absent mindedly.

“We’ve all had those sort of thoughts.”

When Hawke was eight, he used to think there was a ghost in their attic. When mum and dad weren’t home he’d stand on Bethany and Carver’s toy-box and crawl through the narrow hatch in the ceiling. He’d bring a torch and sit in the middle of the attic, shining his battery powered weapon wherever he heard a creak. The house was old, and on top of the hill it was subjected to awful wind, coming cold and salty from the coast; it wasn’t a surprise the old wood groaned and squeaked in such an eerie way. He’d stay until he was too scared, and jump down from the attic, covered in dust and cobwebs. He’d push the toy-box back into the nursery and pretend he’d been playing with the twins the entire time when his mother and father got home.

Sometimes, when he’d lay awake at night, unable to sleep due to cold or heat or too many fizzy drinks before bed, he’d listen for the ghost. He’d hear phantom footsteps – which he’d later learn were birds landing on the roof – and ghostly groans – his mother told them it was the wind whistling against the angles and corners of the house.

Whenever he stayed at his childhood house he’d lie in the bed now far too small for him, beneath a bedspread covered in dragons that he’d loved so much as a child. He’d listen for the noises he used to be so terrified of, and chuckle at why he was such a weird kid.

The car drew slowly to a halt, and Hawke looked up.

“Is this it?” Fenris pointed out of Hawke’s window, towards a grotty pile of rotting fences and rusty barbed wire.

“Yeah.” Hawke said, unbuckling his seatbelt, “I usually notice it from miles away because there’s a traffic cone in one of the trees – but the fog’s so damn thick I couldn’t see a thing.”

Fenris parked against the grass bank, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car.

“So there’s supposed to be a body down there?” he asked, stepping towards the mess of abandoned police tape and tangles of barbed wire. He looked over the drop, to where fog was gathering in thick, cotton wool clouds.

“Supposedly so.” Hawke rubbed his hands together in blew into them, the cold hovering damply at his neck, “Realistically it would be a skeleton by now, though. But that’s equally as macabre as finding a rotting body I guess.”

Fenris fished his phone out of his coat pocket, taking a few pictures of the fog moving slowly on a frosty breeze. He shone his phone’s light into the ditch.

“How close do you think we can get before it’s dangerous?”

Hawke grimaced, scratching his nose consciously as Fenris edged closer to the drop.

“I think it’s just dangerous full stop.” Hawke said under his breath, “But, I mean, I guess we can’t just come here to look. Let’s just say no jumping in, and we’ll probably be safe.”

“It’s not a pool, Hawke.” Fenris leant downwards, squinting, “It’s not as if I’m going to swan dive into it.”

“Yes, yes, I know I just…” Hawke coughed, “I don’t want you to hurt yourself doing something stupid.”

Fenris looked over his shoulder, smiling easily at Hawke. He tugged at his coat collar.

“That’s sweet, but if you’re _really_ as much of a mother hen as Isabela told me you are then you _might_ have a problem with my recklessness.”

Hawke kicked a stone into the ditch, waiting to hear a noise. There was a clattering reply, like the stone had fallen onto bedrock or hard mud – or bone.

“You don’t strike me as the reckless type, to be honest.” Hawke huffed.

“Ask Isabela.” Fenris barked a laugh, “I’ve lost count of the amount of times she’s had to talk me out of fighting people at bars. Granted, she’s helped me win a few bar fights too.”

Hawke had a brief image of Fenris in his head, a light sheen of sweat on his cheeks, a nosebleed drying against his philtrum and upper lip, his hair messy and sticking together in damp clumps. Hawke decided that whilst bar fight fantasies were very hot, they definitely weren’t normal.

“I’m going to get a closer look at whatever’s down there.” Fenris said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “You don’t have to come with me. It may be a better idea for you to just hang around up here actually – in case I fall.”

“Oh, God. Don’t say that.” Hawke squirmed uncomfortably, pressing his face into his hands.

Fenris laughed gently, dangling his leg experimentally over the side of the ditch. He searched around with his foot, tapping and prodding until he found solid ground. Hawke watched with enraptured worry as Fenris gained his footing, and began taking shaky steps down the almost vertical slope.

Hawke waited in strangled silence, leaning against the side of the car, holding onto the door handle so tight his fingers might slice into the worn metal. He heard a few rustles akin to struggling every now and then, but always followed with a somewhat distant,

“I’m fine!”

It was about seven minutes before Fenris appeared over the edge of the ditch again, pulling himself back to level ground and tugging leaves out of his hair.

“How did you get leaves in your hair?” Hawke asked dubiously. Fenris raised an eyebrow at him, frowning.

“ _That’s_ what you want to know? Not, _is there a body down there, Fenris?_ Just…leaves.” Fenris plucked said leaf from behind his ear and crumbled it to dust between his fingers.

“Okay then, fair point.” Hawke said, folding his hands together in his lap, “Is there a body down there, Fenris?”

“No.” he smirked, “Just a whole lot of cigarette stubs and empty drinks cans. Also a few used condoms.”

“Ew.” Hawke wrinkled up his nose. He still took a step forward when Fenris held out his phone for him to look at the photos, though.

“It smelt like weed too. But old weed. Not the good stuff.”

Hawke swiped through the photos with a permanent grimace: piles of rusty cans broken into blade like shards; a small lake of ash, decorated with the well-loved and fondled stubs of the cigarettes it came from; a single abandoned glove, stained with mud and mould; aforementioned used condoms sagging sadly over rocks and wet leaves, disgusting phantoms of brief dalliances long gone; the corpses of young trees felled in the harsh Kirkwall wind.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to paint a used condom.” Hawke felt his stomach churn slightly.

Fenris shrugged.

“An artist called Tracey Emin went through periods of severe suicidal depression and after staying in her bed for days on end she noticed what a repulsive mess she’d made – so she turned it into an art installation.” he slipped his phone into his pocket and carried on towards the car, “She wanted to represent the rawness and realness of it, so there were condoms strewn everywhere, secretions on the bed sheets, underwear covered in menstrual blood.”

“Can we stop talking about this please.” Hawke climbed into the car alongside Fenris, buckling in and kneading at his eyes with his knuckles.

“Sometimes art is disgusting, Hawke.” Fenris smiled softly as he started the ignition, “I would know.”

Hawke ordered Chinese when they got home, and Fenris ate about twenty prawn crackers in under ten minutes. Hawke turned in early, wanting to be awake on time for work.

He woke up several times throughout the night, checking his alarm clock and flopping back into bed unable to sleep. He could hear Dog moving around downstairs, his claws clicking on the old wood. A sliver of white light was cast beneath the door, and Hawke assumed Fenris was still awake. He was used by now to noticing him looking very tired in the morning, drinking copious mugs of coffee in the evening, seeing the silver rectangle outline of the light behind his door still shining when he went to pee in the middle of the night.

Hawke needed a drink suddenly.

He considered grabbing his dressing gown, but his room was warm, and he felt sweaty in even just his t-shirt and boxers. He crept gently across the hallway and down the stairs, keeping light footed so as not to excite Dog. Once Dog was excited, there was no calming him down.

Hawke poured himself a glass of milk and downed it quickly, wiping the remnants from his moustache. He smiled at Dog, who was walking in gentle circles. He always did that when he was tired – almost as if winding himself down to rest.

“C’mon boy.” Hawke whispered, “C’mon, get into your bed.” he knelt down at the old red dog bed, patting the threadbare blanket he’d relocated there once it had grown too worn for him. Dog trotted to the bed and curled up beneath Hawke’s hand. He licked the spaces between his fingers.

“Good boy. Good night.” Hawke gave him a final rub on the belly, and left his empty glass in the sink.

He heard a thumping noise in Fenris’ room when passing. He hesitated before tapping his knuckles gently just above the handle.

“…Fenris?”

“Yes? Um, come in.”

Hawke opened the door and popped his head through, resting against the doorframe.

“Are you okay?” he said sleepily, “I heard a noise.”

“I just dropped an old pencil case.” Fenris, sitting cross legged on the floor, a blank sheet of paper in front of him, held up a small canvas bag and shook it. “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Oh no, no it’s fine.” Hawke scratched at his beard, fighting off a yawn, “I was awake anyway. I was finding it a bit hard to sleep actually.”

Fenris picked up a dark pencil and began sketching a long curved line onto the paper.

“You know, making your room colder can help you sleep better.” he said gently, “I used to have to do it all the time in France. If you leave your window open a bit and let the room cool down it will help you sleep.”

“Is that right?” Hawke said, “I’ll have to try it. Thank you.”

Fenris smiled softly and ducked his head, continuing to sketch. Hawke tapped at the door handle absent mindedly, and shuffled backwards.

“Well…good night then, Fenris. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Hawke. I hope opening the window works.”

“Thank you.”

Opening the window, in fact, did help Hawke sleep, although when he woke that morning, his windowsill was damp, and he was loathe to drag himself out of bed. He shivered profusely as he slammed his window closed, stripping himself of his t-shirt and yesterday’s underwear. He put on a pair of old jeans and a long sleeved v-neck, combing his fingers reluctantly through his hair as he walked downstairs to the kitchen.

Dog exploded into excited barking as Hawke opened up his food cupboard. He shook a packet of treats teasingly before shoving them to the back of the cupboard.

“If you’re good and eat all your breakfast I’ll give you some before I leave.” Hawke cracked open a can of wet food and tipped it into Dog’s bowl, pushing it across the floor to meet his too big paws.

He ate with disgusting wet noises.

“It takes a lot to love something that makes sounds like those.”

Hawke grabbed his coat, and scribbled a small message onto a post-it note.

_went to work early this morning. bacon’s in the fridge. going for a drink with Aveline this evening if you’d like to come!!!_

On the bus home Hawke was grateful for asking for Fenris’ number earlier that week, when he received a text saying:

 

**Fenris (18:05)**

**Thank you for the bacon. I’d quite like to join you for that drink if that’s alright.**

**Garrett (18:05)**

**Of course it is! was dog good today????**

**Fenris (18:06)**

**He was fine. Minimal deafening barking.**

**Garrett (18:06)**

**:)))**

Fenris was sitting in the kitchen with Dog’s head resting on his lap when Hawke got back. He was speaking softly on the phone to who he assumed was Isabela – as he could hear her shrill laughter even through the receiver.

He mouthed a ‘hello’ as he grabbed a packet of crisps from the cupboards, perching himself on the counter. He watched fondly as Fenris mouthed ‘hi’ back, ruffling Dog’s floppy ears.

“No, no Isabela, I haven’t.” Fenris frowned suddenly, “First of all, that’s incredibly inappropriate, and second of all, he’s right _here_.”

Hawke’s cheeks felt very hot suddenly, and he ducked his mouth behind the packet of crisps.

“What did she say?” he whispered.

“Don’t worry – Isabela, stop, I’m not telling him what you said.”

Hawke heard another high pitched cackle, along with a rushed, bubbly good bye, and the low beep of Isabela hanging up. Fenris placed the phone down on the table.

“Sorry about her, she’s always been like this.” Fenris bit his lip, avoiding Hawke’s gaze.

“Oh god, I know.” Hawke laughed, “Why was she calling you?”

Fenris pulled out his chair, and Dog made a vain attempt of jumping up at him, before Fenris pushed him down insistently.

“She wanted to ask about the Wounded Coast trip, if you were still up for it.” he said, “I told her that I was, but I didn’t know about you.”

Hawke had completely forgotten about that.

“Wow, I’d completely forgotten about that.” he ate another crisp, then offered one to Fenris. Fenris shook his head politely, “When are we going again?”

“Tomorrow, apparently.” he explained, “In the evening, when you and Isabela are done with work.”

Hawke almost spat his crisps out.

“What? Do we even – do we even have a plan? A place to stay? I haven’t packed yet – “

A cool chuckle broke Hawke from his panic, and he looked up to Fenris, laughing into his fist.

“Don’t worry.” he grinned softly, “Isabela has a couple of rooms booked at some hotel near the coast. We’re leaving Friday evening so we can drive straight to the coast to see the sunset, we’ll spend the night at the hotel, then watch the sunrise in the morning and leave sometime in the afternoon.”

He stood, grabbing his sketchbook from the table, he opened it and began ruffling through the pages.

“I took Dog for a walk this afternoon. He seemed a bit over excited and I didn’t want to leave him to you after being stuck inside all day.” he said, stopping and plucking a small slip of card from between the pages, “I stopped at a little shop near the woods and found this postcard. I thought you’d like it.”

Fenris handed the postcard to Hawke, and he took it with a surprised quirk to his lips.

The postcard was a simple drawing of a red dog, one arched leg, its mouth open in a silent howl. Hawke smiled.

“Thank you.” he said.

“It’s a drawing of a sculpture called Red Dog for Landois.” Fenris explained, “I’ve never seen it in person, but I used some photographs of it for a series of studies in college.”

“Thank you.” Hawke echoed, slipping the card into his pocket, “You didn’t have to do that – walk Dog, I mean. I would have been happy to take him out.”

Fenris shrugged, smiling dimly, “It would have been unfair to leave him all to you when he was so hyper. He growled at a chihuahua.”

“He always growls at chihuahuas.”

Hawke and Fenris left for the Hanged Man at eight, bundled up into Hawke’s car, shivering against the thick fog. Hawke drove with a sluggishness, teeth chattering and knees knocking as they trundled peacefully through Kirkwall. Whilst Kirkwall’s weekend nightlife was a dizzying whirlwind of drunk underage teens and grotty, smoked out parties, on week days the town hung still. There was the occasional rowdiness from within pubs, but only when a darts tournament or pub quiz had got out of hand.

Aveline was waiting outside of the Hanged Man with her arms crossed over her chest. Swaddled in a red parka, she offered a weak smile as they approached. Her breaths puffed from between her lips in white clouds.

“Evening.” she said, holding the door open for them.

“Hi, Aveline.” Hawke’s teeth were still chattering. Fenris raised a hand in passive greeting.

It felt like walking into a sauna when they reached the bar, and Hawke shrugged off his coat with a great sigh. He rolled his shoulders in the blessedly welcomed heat, laying his coat over the bar stool.

“Where’s Donnic?” he asked, “I thought he was coming too.”

“Donnic couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” she frowned, “He’s been feeling a little under the weather, as of late.”

Aveline tucked her hair behind her ears in that awkward, stifled conversation way, and tilted her head to Fenris, who – as Hawke was aware – was still a near enough stranger to her.

“And how about you, Fenris?” she said, “Have you been settling in alright?”

Fenris, took a seat beside Hawke, and nodded as he rested his elbows on the bar. He pulled back as soon as he realised the surface was sticky.

“Yes, thank you. Kirkwall’s a little different to France, but I’m beginning to quite like it.”

Aveline nodded, and Corff took their drink orders, and the night progressed as nights out should. Aveline and Fenris talked – it wasn’t a surprise to Hawke that two people who are so like themselves would get on well - and Hawke sat between them sipping on his Kirkwall Black and wrinkling his nose at its sharp bitterness. Hawke zoned out for a few minutes, as was custom for him to do when he went without stimulation, but Aveline tapped him on the shoulder before he reached the point of no return.

“I forgot,” she said with a tight grin, “I have a story I think you’ll quite like.” Hawke rested his chin in his hand.

“Story, eh? Now I thought I’d gone out for a drink with Aveline, not Varric.” Hawke replied, no restraint on his slightly tipsy grin.

“It’s not one of _his_ stories.” she said, “You wouldn’t get anything like that out of me. No, it’s just that we had a rather strange robbery this week and I thought you’d find it quite amusing.”

It was for the next fifteen minutes that Aveline told Hawke and Fenris the riveting tale of a man who stole 66 kilograms of dog food from the pet store, continued to deny the theft despite possessing no receipts or proof of purchase, refused to talk to the police for almost an hour before he left his home and admitted rather solemnly that, “Oh yes, I remember now. You’re right, I may have forgotten to actually pay for the food.”

“How do you just _forget_ to pay for something?” Hawke said, laughing as he took a risky sip of his drink.

“Who knows.” Aveline smiled, “But it happens a lot more than you’d think.”

“I imagine it’s the closest to action you get in a place like this.” Fenris was running trails of water from his glass’s water stain on the bar, his long fingers moving in languid strokes, “Nothing so exciting as bank heist or murder.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Aveline stretched, “We do get the odd case that stumps us a little, but really, being a police officer in a small town is little more than handing out speeding tickets and charging litterers.”

The three of them left at ten, Aveline needing to get home and tend to a sick Donnic. She made Hawke promise to drive safe, and Hawke assured her that he would check his mirrors and wear his seatbelt. Fenris looked tired when he climbed into the car.

“You alright?” Hawke asked as he started the ignition.

“Mmm,” Fenris nodded sedately, “Just a little tired.”

He was quiet for a second.

“Aveline is nice.” he added.

Hawke smirked to himself, pulling out of the Hanged Man’s gravelly excuse of a car park and rolling onto the rain slickened roads.

“I thought you two would get along.” he said, “You’re very similar – in a way.”

“Because we’re both stoic?” Fenris cocked an eyebrow as he turned to Hawke, but he was smiling. Hawke laughed.

“That. But I just had a feeling about you two.” Hawke slowed as a young man cross the road ahead with his labrador, “Honestly it feels like you would be more likely to be friends with Aveline than Isabela.”

Fenris ducked his head, smiling still – which warmed Hawke’s chest.

“Isabela is a side of me I often can’t show.”

“That was deep.”

“You have a very crude sense of what _deep_ is.”

Hawke was too tired to make a proper dinner, and when he collapsed onto a kitchen chair it was a chore even to peel a banana and watch Fenris prepare some cheese and crackers for the two of them. Dog sat in a pile of floppy skin and greasy fur at Hawke’s feet, licking his hand affectionately and whining when he didn’t scratch his ears.

“Thanks…” Hawke said as Fenris placed a plate of cheese and crackers in front of him. He recognised the Red Lester and the camembert and the cheddar, but he had no idea what the cheese with red blotches was. He held a crumbly block between his fingers and wrinkled his nose, “What’s this?”

Fenris looked up, a cracker load with cheddar raised to his lips.

“Oh, I picked it up at Tesco after I walked Dog today.” he said, “Wensleydale with Cranberries. That’s it’s actual name if you can believe it.”

Hawke took an experimental bight – it wasn’t unpleasant, simply unusual. He crumbled some onto one of his crackers.

“I’ll assume your eccentric taste in food relates somewhat to you being an artist.” Hawke said.

“It’s hardly eccentric, Hawke.”

“The poshest cheese I’ve ever eaten is brie, cut me some slack.”

Fenris disappeared to his room soon after he finished their makeshift dinner, explaining he wanted to pack up a bag for the coast trip.

“I advise you do the same.”

Hawke loathed packing, but begrudgingly dragged an overnight bag from the cupboard under the stairs, stuffing it with a few t-shirts and fleeces, an extra pair of socks and underwear and his headphones. He threw in a book, just in case he needed entertainment in the no doubt lack lustre hotel Isabela had found. His packing, if it could be called that, resembled a very cosy bird’s nest.

He left his window open a crack that night before going to sleep, and didn’t flinch when Dog nosed the door open and flopped onto the foot of his bed. He slept better than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the pieces of art mentioned in this chapter are 'My Bed' by Tracey Emin (one of my favourite modern art pieces) and 'Red Dog for Landois' by Keith Haring. also i know people may like to disagree about Fenris' personality, but based on what i took from in game he is actually kinda reckless. so yknow. agree to disagree if you have something different in mind with him.


	7. flesh

“Garry!!”

When Hawke got home on Friday evening, at three rather than six – a feat considering how difficult it was to heckle his boss for time off - he had not been expecting to be greeted by Isabela hanging out of her car window with her arms open and her jaw bobbing with the motion of gum chewing. She stepped out of the car in that all too familiar ‘ _I could kill a man_ ’ fluidity, and her red sleeved top and flared denim shorts made her look like a kid from a 90s teen movie. Her hair was in a messy bun.

“I’m not Garry!” Hawke whined, gathering Isabela up into a hug as she skipped over to him in bright red shoes.

“Are you ready?” she grinned, rapping her fists gently on Hawke’s chest, “Are you excited? _I’m_ excited. Is Fenris excited? Oh my God, I’m so excited.”

“You’re going to burst a blood vessel.” Hawke clapped a hand to Isabela’s shoulder, and she swatted it away with a burgundy lipped smirk.

“I’m perfectly calm.” she said, suddenly gaining an eerie composure and striding to Hawke’s front door. “Is it open?”

“I asked Fenris to unlock it so, yeah, go ahead.”

Isabela barged into Hawke’s front hall like she owned the entire street, swinging her hips like an out of control clock pendulum, she strutted into the living room and held her perfectly manicured hands out to a very enthusiastic Dog.

Hawke closed the door with a gentle click, and leant against it as he watched Dog bound from floor to sofa, to floor again in excitement.

“Hello, puppy!” Isabela shrieked in glee, rubbing Dog’s belly and tugging playfully at his fat jowls, “Have you missed me? Have you missed your auntie Isabela? You have haven’t you? Yes you have you lovely boy.”

“I’ll go get Fenris.” Hawke sighed, although he smiled at the copious compliments and kissy noises that Isabela rained upon Dog. Dog made noises of delighted confusion in reply.

“Are you ready, Fenris?” Hawke knocked on Fenris’ bedroom door, opening it with a slow, hollow creak.

Fenris was slouching in his desk chair, eyes locked on a huge, yellow book in his lap. A satchel was hung over the back of his chair.

Hawke’s eyes glanced over the room for a second, a slight smile pulling at his lips as he took in the endearing clutter. Fenris had made the room distinctly his already: the previously bare windows now hung with grey-blue curtains; his desk piled with sheets of unfinished drawings and art books and newly bound sketchbooks; the finished canvases propped in exhibition against walls and corners.

“Is Isabela here?” Fenris asked, closing his book and slipping it into his satchel. _Van Gogh: The Complete Paintings_ , Hawke managed to read from the cover before it disappeared.

Hawke nodded.

“She’s currently ravishing Dog but I can tell she’s very excited to get going.”

Fenris put his satchel over his shoulder, and joined Isabela downstairs whilst Hawke grabbed his own bag and changed his clothes quickly.

“Where is this magnificent beast going whilst we’re away?” Isabela asked when Hawke returned, his bag under his arm. She pulled on Dog’s mouth, revealing shiny pink gums, wet with spittle. She grimaced and turned his lips back down.

“Dropping him off at my mum’s if you can.” Hawke said, “I made sure mum was out for when we left, she’d lure us all in for three cups of tea and full tin of biscuits otherwise.”

Isabela stood, brushing off her shorts, and pouted.

“What if I _wanted_ three cups of tea and a full tin of biscuits.” she said, arms akimbo.

“Isabela, I know you and my mother have some sort of weird lady cult but I really can’t get caught in another one of her mother son bonding sessions which is actually just her talking about her week and asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend yet.”

Isabela and Fenris laughed. Dog whimpered, wanting to be fussed again.

“That’s a good point.” Isabela giggled, and reached up to ruffle Hawke’s head of black curls, “Why _don’t_ you have a boyfriend yet?” she raised a knowing eyebrow, and Hawke frowned, thinking of her mocking texts and supposedly inappropriate phone conversation with Fenris.

“You’re evil.” he said, fixing his hair back into a presentable tangle.

“I’m brilliant.” Isabela gave a fond tap to Hawke’s cheek, and stalked into the hallway like a lioness that just sank its teeth into a helpless deer.

“You can’t argue with her.” Fenris smiled, Dog jumping and nipping at his heels as he followed Isabela.

Isabela’s car smelt like Yankee candle air fresheners and chocolate, and Hawke squeezed into the back seat alongside Dog, who slobbered and spat profusely over the plush leather seats. Hawke’s knees pressed awkwardly against the passenger seat, as they always did in cars too small for him. Fenris leant over the chair and asked if he wanted him to pull his seat forward.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Hawke smiled.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Fenris pulled his seat forward anyway, and Hawke stretched out gratefully. Dog buried his head in Hawke’s lap.

Isabela definitely drove faster than was legal in sleepy suburban Kirkwall, and Hawke swayed with every sharp turn. She made incessant conversation, babbling as though her mouth were a tap left open. Fenris grunted, tipped his head, made every non-committal noise or gesture possible to keep Isabela happy.

They pulled up outside the Hawke household just as it began to rain, and Dog leapt out of the car as soon as Hawke opened the door. Dog plodded his fat paws through the newly forming puddles, rolling in the mud that was churning anew beneath his squirming back, his mouth open to the shiny pearls of rain that splattered across his tongue.

“Oh no.” Hawke groaned, jumping out of the car and pulling up the hood of his sweatshirt. “No no no, you silly dog.”

Hawke grabbed Dog’s collar, dragging him through the mud and through the open back gate. The two struggled through the garden – somewhere that Dog loved to romp and growl and knock over poor, unassuming garden gnomes. The keys in Hawke’s pocket jangled, and Dog began to flail in a futile attempt to escape as he realised he was going to be trapped inside the conservatory.

“Stop it. Stop it!” Hawke snapped as he unlocked the door, pushing it open with his shoulder and practically throwing Dog inside. He scrabbled around on the towel and lino flooring like Bambi on ice, his claws clicking against the floor. “Mum has left you food over there,” he pointed to the small metal bowl next to the washing machine, “And she is going to be very nice to you this weekend so you have to be _good_.”

Hawke scrubbed one last fuss over Dog’s head before slamming the door with finality and locking it.

Isabela was giggling like a school girl when Hawke returned to the car. Fenris was hiding his smile behind the crook of his knuckles.

“What?” he asked, plugging his seatbelt in. He looked down at himself, and noticed a long streak of mud down his left trouser leg. “Oh.”

“You’re just as much a puppy as him.” Isabela said, reversing back onto the road, “Wrestling him like that.”

“Dominance.” Hawke crossed his arms, “I was showing him who the alpha male was.”

Fenris snorted.

“I think the alpha male needs a demotion.” Isabela gave a sly grin, throwing Hawke a glance over the back of her seat.

“Actually the alpha male needs a nap.” Hawke admitted, shifting to rest his head against the window. “I slept all night but I still feel like I’m missing three hours of sleep.”

“Have a little nap then, kitten.” Isabela said softly, “Though I can’t promise I won’t pull over and draw a sausage on your forehead.”

“Sausage.” Fenris echoed flatly.

“Yes, sausage, Fenris. Not everything has to be an innuendo you know.”

Hawke fell asleep to Isabela and Fenris’ muffled exchanges in the front seat.

When Hawke awoke he was glad to find there was not a sausage or any other variant upon one drawn on his forehead. He was aware, however, that they were far from Kirkwall now.

Isabela’s car was suffering, crunching and rumbling over the horrendous cracks and dips and potholes in the neglected roads towards the Wounded Coast. There was a strange, muggy coldness to the car – Hawke felt gooseflesh and a shiver in his fingertips, yet his t-shirt was sticking to his chest with sweat. He felt like he was wading through molasses when he sat, resting his chin on the back of the passenger seat and gazing through the windscreen.

There was a broken swipe of stormy, grey-blue water in the distance, hovering between the hills and the horizon like the delicate outline of an ink drawing. The thick, sharp blades of grass that grew abound either side of the road seemed to be hissing and singing, guiding them towards the black watered distance.

Isabela turned her head, smiling softly as she saw the heavy-lidded half-awareness in Hawke’s eyes.

“Good nap?” she asked, “You were out for at least an hour and half.”

“Mm,” Hawke rubbed at his eyes with knuckles, “Is it strangely humid in here?”

“I was feeling a bit muggy under the collar.” Fenris agreed solemnly, and reached for the switch on side of the door. The window rolled down with a monotonous hum. “Better?”

Hawke nodded.

“Yes, thanks.”

Isabela craned her head in a bird like way to watch the gentle turn of the waves in the distance. She wasn’t grinning yet, but the corners of her lips were wrestling to stay in a neutral line. She ran her hands restlessly over the steering wheel and flicked her gaze to Fenris, whose hand had fallen just short of hanging out the window completely. He pulled cobwebs absent mindedly from the space between the wing mirror and the door.

“Well?” she cocked an eyebrow, “I’d thought maybe you’d have more to say about this, Mr Arty. You did come here for arty reasons after all.”

Fenris regarded Isabela with a look that did little more than denote vague confusion, and he drew his hand back to his lap.

“What exactly do you want me to say, Isabela?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Isabela swayed her hand as if trying to banish a bad smell, “Does the landscape give you _inspiration_.” she wavered her voice in a faux, posh accent and cackled at her own awful impression.

Fenris tried to hide his smirk behind the heel of his palm.

“That sort of grey bit of cliff,” Fenris reached a hand out towards the windscreen, pointing two fingers at a ragged wall of stone that peaked above the horizon line. A barrage of foam bubbled at its foot, “Reminds me of a Monet painting. The Cliffs at Etretat – not one of his most well-known pieces, but a nice painting nonetheless.”

“Oh my,” Isabela faked a swoon, bringing a limp hand to her forehead, “I do love it when you talk arty to me, Fenris.”

“I can practically _hear_ Aveline groaning from Kirkwall.” Hawke laughed, squeezing his shoulders into the space between Fenris and Isabela’s seats. “And also Varric jotting it down.”

Isabela bit her tongue and winked,

“You know it’s a good line when you sense its disturbance in the force.”

“Is the rest of this car ride just going to be you telling me to talk about art and making botched Star Wars references?”

“If you want it to be, Fenris.”

“Please no.”

When Isabela’s car hummed to a slow halt amongst the marram grass, the sky was already dusting over with pink.

Hawke had not been expecting there to be a car park here, and whilst it was small, and not a single other car was to be seen, it seemed as though someone had hoped it would come into good use. It was like most beachside car parks were – boxed in by old wood fences, overflowing with drifts of pale sand, white lines long gone grey cracking in the harsh salt wind. It had a strange, neglected sort of appeal.

The others seemed to agree, as both Isabela and Fenris took quick photos on their phones before slipping them back into their pockets.

“I’ll put that on my Instagram later.” Isabela said, locking up her car and leaning on the fence.

She thrust her hips out in that undeniably Isabela way, and moved her elbows so that her chest was pressed between the angles of her forearms. Hawke decided it was a mystery that he found it distracting despite being gay.

“The sky’s like an ombre.” Isabela observed, tilting her head back and watching the orange clouds drift forward. She was right – the sky above was a rolling expanse of red, but it faded in bare increments to a peachy pink and then a soft yellow.

“It’s really quite pretty isn’t it.” Hawke joined Isabela, leaning his hips against the highest rung of fence. He kept his arms crossed – it was surprisingly chilly outside of the car – and said, “It makes it feel like summer almost.”

“How does a sunset at five o’clock feel like summer?” Fenris deadpanned, kicking a pile of sand to uncover the sprigs of marram grass it was covering. He took a quick photo of that too.

“Well, I mean,” Hawke ran an awkward hand through his hair, looking back at Fenris, “You never really _see_ a sunset like this during autumn and winter, do you? It kind of just…gets _dark_.”

Hawke watched Fenris mill around subconsciously, tracing idle patterns in the sand with the toe of his shoe. He was only slightly aware of Isabela muttering, _I miss summer_ in an almost audible pout.

When Fenris looked up, meeting Hawke’s gaze in such a way that it felt like lightning had struck between them, Hawke felt a heat rise to his cheeks, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, turning back to the face the sunset.

Fenris stood with a slouch and a lowered stare when he rested on the fence next to Hawke. There were bare inches between his arm and Hawke’s, a thick warmth swum there, like body heat clinging to any semblance of other life out here in the wilderness. Or, at least as close as it could get to wilderness anywhere near Kirkwall.

“Do you want to go down onto the beach, boys?” Isabela paused for a second and then chuckled, “Haha, _beach boys_. Like the band – “

“Yes, we get it.”

“Alright then. No need to be rude.”

Hawke both hated and loved the beach.

He remembered when he was very young, before Bethany and Carver had been born, and he’d been dragged on a seaside holiday to a very warm place he didn’t know the name of. They’d stayed in one of those stripy little beach-huts you see in every holiday advert, the ones that you never think are actually real until you see one for yourself. He’d barely slept most nights, excited for the morning when he could run out into the sand on tiny little feet – make sandcastles and paddle in the ocean.

On the third day of their holiday, his father had bought ice creams for the three of them, and they sat on the edge of the boardwalk. Hawke had been sat on his mother’s lap, and he remembered, when a big alsation loose from its lead had sprinted past, and Hawke – even as a small child, obsessed with dogs of every shape and size – had pointed excitedly, resulting in dropping his ice cream into the sand.

It was a long time ago, and Hawke could barely remember anything other than that. He wasn’t sure if he’d been given another ice cream or if he’d cried. What annoyed him most is he couldn’t remember if he got to stroke the alsation or not.

Perhaps childhood memories of sand mercilessly assaulting his ice cream were what caused him to hate sitting down at the beach with such a passion.

Isabela, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care, and plopped herself down very decidedly on the sand. She stretched her legs out and reached up with her arms as if trying to touch the sky. Fenris stood next to her, but didn’t sit. She grinned up at him,

“Are you going to draw the sea?”

“Maybe not today.” he replied, “I painted nonstop for about five hours starting at eight. My hand needs a rest.”

Hawke lingered behind them, his eyes stuck between the ever reaching line of the ocean and the yellow fade of sky that reflected like a spilt sauvignon. He eyed the water cautiously, thought about the drawbacks to kicking off his shoes, rolling up his jeans, and running into the shallows like an excited child. He really _really_ wanted to – if only just to let his inner toddler shine through. The water would be cold, though, so he shook his head to the thought and pulled his phone out to get a picture of the sky.

He thought of their holiday to Berlin last year, when he’d taken a picture of Bethany and Carver in front of the wall murals and his mother had tutted, “Why must young people take a photo of everything? Enjoy the moment! Don’t live through it on your phones.”

He half grinned, although it was laced with a sigh, and tucked his phone back into his pocket after taking the picture.

“Do you like it, Hawkey?” Isabela leant backwards, peering up at Hawke, beaming. He towered over her with a smile, poking at her nose affectionately.

“Yeah. A bit chilly, but it’s nice.” he scanned the beachfront for a second, “Also the sand is gross and full of weird stuff but at least the sunset is pretty.”

They all just watched for a while, Isabela sprawled out in the sand, Fenris and Hawke swaying in the breeze. The sky was purple before long, and then a deep blue after that, the night sky was green-black when Isabela began complaining about the cold.

“We should go to the hotel now, don’t you think.” Fenris helped Isabela stand and offered her his jacket. She declined with a pat to his shoulder.

“Good call.” she replied, and bolted like a scared cat up the sandy slope towards the car park.

“Isabela turns into a cranky old woman when it gets cold.” Hawke said quietly, beginning his slow ascent up the sand hill.

“I know.” Fenris smirked, “I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve had to give her my coat in the name of chivalry.”

“Oh what a gentleman you are, Fenris.”

“You flatter me.”

“Hurry up ladies!” Isabela called from her car, “I’m freezing my nipples off in here!”

“What a pleasant image.” Fenris grimaced, opening the car door and slipping inside. Hawke watched the way he moved, with that same graceful fluidity as Isabela. If Isabela moved like honey, Fenris moved like molasses – similar, but darker, thicker, with a slower trickle and a more satisfying sheen to the surface. Hawke had to clear his throat before taking his own seat in the back.

“Well if you two hadn’t been flirting out there in November Hell maybe I wouldn’t have subjected you to it.”

“We weren’t flirting.”

“Whatever you say Da Vinci.”

The hotel Isabela found would probably have been rated half a star on Yelp.

With walls the colour of old milk and crusted carpets that smelt like it, ugly paintings of uglier people wearing ugly clothes littered every surface, Hawke decided this hotel wouldn’t be a bad setting for a horror movie. Dim flickering bulbs were obscured with red and pink lampshades, throwing an unsettling highlight the colour of wine over each of the walls. Hawke’s nose flinched at how much it reminded him of a red light district. Isabela leant on the front desk with her fingers wound together, she took a measured look around the place, raised an eyebrow at Hawke and Fenris.

She collected their keys with no problem, shoving her own in the wide pockets of her shorts, and hurling the other pair at Hawke like a throwing star. Hawke made a noise like a scared puppy when they hit him in the face.

The elevator was an old-fashioned one, the sort with the pull over grates and the black and white diamond flooring. Isabela wrinkled her nose at what appeared to be a weeks old apple core abandoned in the corner.

“Why did you have to find us rooms at Satan’s B&B.” Hawke sighed as the elevator screeched to a clattering halt, and they filed out into the hallway that was barely wide enough to accept all of them standing shoulder to shoulder.

“Because God’s was all booked up, _obviously_.” Isabela’s room was at the opposite end of the hall, and she skipped towards it with the kind of excitement someone staying in Satan’s B &B definitely should not have, “Have a rest before dinner you two. I’m going to check my tinder.”

“Does she actually have tinder or is she joking?”

“Nope.” Hawke sighed, making his way towards their own room, “She uses it mostly for hook-ups. Ironically – she says, at least.”

The keys jangled loudly as he jammed them into the door, and it opened with a sad creak. Hawke was instantly hit with a stale whiff of old plaster and neglected potted plants.

The room was equally as depressing as the rest of the hotel, with a stained yellow-green carpet, flaky painted walls, and drab, moth eaten curtains. Two single beds separated by a small bedside table took up the majority of the room space, accompanied by a dark wood wardrobe and a desk without a chair. A wastepaper bin was stowed beneath the bedside table, and Hawke could see three cigarette stubs sitting at the top of the small mountain of rubbish.

Fenris walked to the bed furthest from the door, settling at the foot of it and gazing out the window. There was little moonlight, but what shone through the clouds in gentle silver streams illuminated the ocean in the near distance like a sliver of petrol on rain soaked pavements. Hawke watched Fenris intently for what must have been the hundredth time that day.

Fenris didn’t flinch when he met Hawke’s gaze.

“Do you always do this?” Fenris said.

“Do what?” Hawke placed his rucksack down on the pillow of the remaining bed, sitting at its edge, his back to Fenris, and unlacing his shoes.

Fenris sighed loudly, as if Hawke was supposed to _know_ what he was talking about. He leant back, smoothing out the creases in the ugly blue bedspread beneath his palms.

“Stare at people.” Fenris continued.

Hawke faltered, taking a moment to breathe before he removed his other shoe. He placed them next to each other, just to the left of the bed, and turned to Fenris. Fenris wasn’t looking at him, Hawke had a feeling that Fenris didn’t want to be looking at him at the moment.

“Does it make you feel uncomfortable?” Hawke said quietly, “I can stop if you like.”

“It’s not like I’m _unused_ to being stared at.” Fenris said, without acknowledging Hawke’s question, “I just…it feels different when you’re the one staring.”

There was no coldness in Fenris’ eyes when he turned his head over his shoulder. Hawke had expected it, like an icy chill to match the frigid tone of Fenris’ voice. It did not come, however. All Hawke could pick out of the stare he was levelled was the curiosity, the doe eyed twinge of hope that lingered somewhere between the dark lines of his iris and the white. Fenris’ pupils were black holes. Hawke had never been so fascinated by space travel until now.

“When have people been starring at you?” Hawke swung his legs over the bed, making any movement possible to bring himself closer to Fenris. He could feel something between them – that thick, tangible ripple that he’d been feeling since he met him. It was warmer now, more watery, easier to swim through.

“When haven’t they.” Fenris scoffed, he caught a handful of quilt between his fingers as he turned to face Hawke completely. Their torsos felt tethered like this. “You’re doing it now. Although I must say that I prefer your eyes on me to those of strangers. Hell, I prefer your eyes to my ex partners’.”

Hawke held Fenris’ gaze.

“What are you saying?” Hawke said, though he wasn’t sure of his own meandering speech.

“I’m _saying_ that I don’t feel uncomfortable when you stare at me, Hawke.” his voice felt like the grinding of a mortar and pestle. “What I’m also saying is I rather enjoy it. And by that I mean, I enjoy feeling appreciated rather than objectified.”

Hawke didn’t say anything – _couldn’t_ say anything. The words he wanted to say were caught in his throat, waiting in that awful way that your tongue does seconds before you vomit. A similar sourness filled his mouth.

“Why _do_ you stare?” Fenris said, possibly the quietest Hawke had ever heard him, “Because I’ve noticed. I can tell you think I haven’t, but I have. You’ve been staring since we met.”

Hawke wrung his fingers together, kept a careful eye on Fenris. He was trying to match that look, stare at him in that same off-kilter way that he did. It was hard.

“It’s hard not to stare at someone who looks like you do, Fenris.” Hawke swallowed deeply, feeling the warmth of his own saliva spread across his throat. It felt bad to be thinking about saliva now, especially when he was staring – _staring_ – at Fenris. His mind wouldn’t be able to help itself but wander to thinking of – no. No, he couldn’t. “I find myself thinking about…”

Hawke couldn’t find the strength to continue.

Fenris could.

“I’ve been thinking of you often.” he said, “If that’s anything akin to what you wanted to say.”

Hawke nodded. He was terrified of the thought of his hands shaking, although they were, bunched together, fingers interlocked, pressed against his thigh.

“I do like to entertain myself with thoughts of you.” Fenris said, he pushed his torso forward and angled a gaze at Hawke through his lashes, “I’ve…been able to think of little else as of late. You…you interest me, Hawke. In the best way possible.”

“And what do you think we should do about that?” Hawke said whilst barely opening his mouth. He felt his lips stick together as he talked.

Fenris shrugged, although he leant forward as though he knew exactly what he wanted to do about it.

Hawke knew too.

He had hoped Fenris’ hair would be as soft as this, easy to just slip through his fingers and sit there. He cupped the back of Fenris’ head at first with two hands, though his second dragged down across his jaw, kept his chin tilted up. His lips were a hard line of heat, thick and full under Hawke’s own, which were pale and cracked and barely there at all. Their teeth met like the clicking of heels against stone and Hawke was brought back to a simpler time.

He thought, most inappropriately, of his first kiss.

It was summer, and he was fourteen, and it was maybe a month after his late night revelation of, “I like boys.” that had hit him like the rumbles of thunder that saturated the sky outside. The park smelt like death itself, full and unrelenting with the fetor scent of rotting road kill that piled up endlessly during summer. He had been straddling a swing, drinking Cola from a glass bottle that chilled his fingertips.

It figured that the first boy he’d ever kiss would also be the one who grew up to be the straightest man to walk the planet, but Hawke had been young and foolish, and Cullen had been bored and confused.

His first kiss had not been pleasant, because Hawke didn’t know how to move his lips and Cullen hadn’t turned his head the right way. He’d bled not because Cullen had meant to bite his lip but because they thought they’d heard someone coming, and Cullen had been ready to leg it as fast and as far away from Hawke as possible. He’d slipped, his teeth catching on Hawke’s bottom lip. Hawke’s jaw had clapped up on instinct.

The copper taste on his lips remained for what felt like weeks. It remained until he was sixteen and had finally told his mother and father that he liked boys in _That Way_.

He felt it again now.

And Fenris was a much better kisser than Cullen.

Unfortunately it ended all too soon, and Fenris pulled away with short, shallow breaths and the curve of a knuckle edging closer to his lip. He bit thoughtfully on the joint, sighing into his own hold on it before collapsing back into his bed.

“Can we not tell Isabela we did that?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Hawke understood what he meant, but he couldn’t help but think about what other than sealed his lips had been.

When Isabela knocked on their door perhaps half an hour later, toting her phone and a purse as big as her face, Hawke could still feel the heaviness of Fenris’ lips on his own. It took him a few seconds to compute what Isabela was saying.

“Oh, yeah, dinner,” Hawke ran a hand through his hair, “Are you ready to grab a bite to eat, Fenris?”

Cross legged on his bed, the large yellow book sitting in his lap, Fenris looked up as though he hadn’t been listening. Wisps of hair fell in front of his eyes like hanging plants before windows.

“What was that?”

“Dindins.” Isabela leant past Hawke in the doorway, waving her purse with the promise of her spending far too much money on awful pub grub. “It’s on me.”

“Everything seems to be on you at the moment.” Hawke muttered as Fenris sat his book aside and slipped his boots back on.

“It’s because I have more money than both of you put together.”

Hawke had always assumed that in a hotel, the area where you eat is referred to as a ‘restaurant’. Here? He would refer to it as more of a service station off-brand fast food café.

Maybe eleven tables were scattered around a small hall, all with a disarray of mismatching chairs which would have been endearing and quirky were it not for the shabbiness of it all. The table clothes were threadbare, the cutlery blunt, and the chairs wobbled unevenly when you so much as hovered your weight above them.

Hawke took the seat closest to the bathroom – in the hopes that he would make it in time should the food disagree with him – and took a menu from the stand with a grimace of anticipation.

Isabela ordered cider battered fish and chips, and Fenris asked for an omelette. Hawke felt a little embarrassed when he asked for gammon and egg again.

“Do you _really_ order it because it sounds like your name or do you just like gammon a lot?” Fenris asked, raising his eyes away from the water stained menu he held.

Hawke was desperately trying to ignore how, beneath the minimal space the table offered, Fenris’ knees were pressed against his own.

“It started off as a joke but…” he wrinkled his nose, “Now I kind of regret it because it’s my default order. Sometimes I say it when I don’t even want gammon.”

Isabela snickered into the back of her palm, kicking her legs up onto the spare chair – opposite her, beside Hawke. She leant back in her chair carelessly, and Hawke wanted to tell her to be careful not to fall.

“Oh Hawkey, what a hot mess you are.” she winked, “Our hot mess though. A hot mess we all love and appreciate.”

“You would be nothing without this steaming pile of awkward.” Hawke gestured proudly to himself, glancing at the empty glasses scattered about the table. There were cracks and smudges on most of them. He decided he didn’t want a drink.

The food, when it arrived, looked as though it had been cooked at least a day ago, and left to grow wilted in the fridge. Isabela poked at her chips with a concerned turn to her lips, and asked the waiter what drinks they had.

The waiter had been making to leave, and turned with grey eyes and hollow cheeks and droned,

“Water or wine.” he dragged a hand through his receding hair, “We’ve run out of everything else, madam.”

“Wine for the whole table please.” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, turning back to the grey chips and thin batter on her plate. “Hopefully it won’t be watered down.” she muttered under her breath, but the waiter gave her a dirty look as he returned to the kitchen.

The wine wasn’t watered down, quite the opposite in fact. Hawke had struggled with the cork for about three minutes before Fenris plucked the bottle from his hands and opened it with ease. It fell into his glass like syrup, languid and thick. Fenris frowned.

“I’m willing to bet more than half of this is sugar.” he passed the bottle to Isabela and raised the glass to his lips. It left a dark stain on his top lip, one that he couldn’t remove with his napkin, and Hawke found it hard not to stare at the dappled puce on the cracked skin. “It tastes like cough syrup.”

Hawke cut a long slice from his gammon – tough, stringy, and a slightly too pink on the inside – and lathered it in mustard. Isabela was also trying to hide the atrocious taste of her chips by covering them completely in condiments. Fenris’ omelette looked like a dead flat fish.

“Let’s skip out on breakfast tomorrow, boys.” Isabela grimaced. “We can get pastries on the way home.”

Hawke and Fenris agreed swiftly – Hawke voicing his approval through a mouthful of too chewy meat.

There was unanimous agreement to pass on dessert as well.

When Isabela had paid, and they retreated upstairs, the windows that lined the dank walls rattled and swayed. Isabela ran to the end of the corridor, pressing her hands to the window and grinning. Her breath steamed up the glass and she swiped it clean with her sleeve.

“Look at that storm!” she said wistfully. Hawke leant over her shoulder, peering through the obscuring raindrops. Fenris waited patiently behind them. “I used to love storms when I was little.”

“Carver was scared of them.” Hawke chuckled fondly, “Never tell him I told you, though.”

“That’s adorable.”

Isabela finally went to her room after gawking at the storm for about five minutes. She gave Hawke and Fenris a kiss on the cheek and a hair ruffle each, and departed with her usual _‘you’re going to miss me_ ’ swing to her hips.

Hawke went to the bathroom to change into his pyjamas – an old t-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms that were sadly riddled with stains and tears – and gave his face a wash. The water smelt suspicious, and he scrubbed at his face sparingly. He dared not touch the hand soap, if the sticky residue around the head of the pump so much as ghosted his hands he would probably have a heart attack and collapse on the bathroom floor.

When he returned to the room Fenris was spread out of his bed, lying on his back, legs kicked onto the headboard. His neck rested in a graceful curve over the edge of the bed and he pointed the battered TV remote at the shelf on the other side of the wall. A tiny television with a flickering screen was pushed far back. Hawke could only just make out a news reporter’s face on the screen.

“It’s Friday.” Hawke said awkwardly, “QI should probably be on tonight.”

Fenris nodded wordlessly, and flicked through the channels until the jittery screen and static bound speakers settled on Stephen Fry expertly reading from his cue cards. The sound was little more than a projectile vomit of white noise hissing and garbled words. Fenris turned the volume down.

“Maybe just for background noise.” he muttered, rolling onto his stomach and kicking his legs off the bed.

Hawke watched, and he hated himself for it, so he averted his eyes and plumped his pillows and sat in the pile me made for himself like a large, grumpy bird that hadn’t had a decent meal since this morning.

He wondered how Dog was doing.

He grabbed his phone from the bedside table.

 

**Garrett (20:36)**

**Hi mum!!! I just wanted to see how you were getting on with dog**

**Garrett (20:36)**

**Is he behaving himself????**

**Mum (20:37)**

**Hello darling, yes Dog has been fine. I gave him sausages for tea and I gave him a lot of fuss. How is your trip ?**

Hawke gave himself a moment to laugh over how his mum texted, almost as if she had no knowledge of being able to compose several texts at once.

 

**Garrett (20:37)**

**Fun so far! isabela is teasing me as usual and fenris hasnt been too gloomy**

**Garrett (20:37)**

**Food was a bit rubbishy tho :(**

**Mum (20:38)**

**Oh dear….make sure you have a proper meal when you get home. Is Fenris your new housemate?**

Hawke hazarded a glance towards Fenris. He sat cross-legged up against the headboard, that humungous yellow book balanced between his thighs and his phone placed strategically against his foot. Bethany did that sometimes – so she could feel it vibrate when she got texts.

 

**Garrett (20:38)**

**Yeah thats him. hes enjoying himself too i think**

**Mum (20:39)**

**That’s good. I hope you enjoy the rest of the trip, sleep well Garrett xx**

**Garret (20:39)**

**Night mum**

For a second Hawke wondered whether his mother actually assumed he was going to bed now, before realising she knew better and definitely knew that he used to lie awake at night reading comic books and listening out for ghosts. Hawke blames his childhood for his current adult weirdness.

Fenris’ phone buzzed loudly against his foot.

“Talking to Isabela?” Hawke asked, trying to ignore the thickness at the back of his throat. They’d kissed in this room barely an hour ago. And it had been _good_.

“Mmm.” Fenris nodded gently, tapping in a reply, “She keeps sending me pictures people on her Tinder for opinions.”

“There’s a sign of trust.” Hawke laughed.

“How flattering.” Fenris smirked, glancing cautiously at Hawke from the corner of his eye.

They held eye contact for what felt like years, before Hawke’s gaze fluttered, and Fenris guided his eyes back to the pages of his book.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

When Hawke turned the lights out, he curled his fingers into the rough sheets and sank sleepily into the hard mattress. Springs cried against his back, biting each ridge of his spine, creaking with every movement. He moved restlessly beneath the duvet, kicking it away from his ankles only to tug it back down. He sounded like a cotton hurricane, saturating the room with soft sounds and crisps hisses. The storm outside accompanied his washing machine turning.

“Hawke.” Fenris’ voice broke the darkness like a clean strike of lightning. Cracked the black with electricity, charged Hawke’s nerves with a buzzing fire. “You sound like a bull in a china shop.”

“Sorry.” Hawke turned, the sheets catching between his legs, bunching around his thighs. He frowned at the grey darkness between the beds, the barely there sliver of light that fell over Fenris’ cheek bone, “I always find it hard to sleep away from home.”

“If your bed’s as hard as mine I don’t blame you.”

The whispers they traded reminded Hawke of childhood sleepovers, muttering and giggling by torchlight, mouthfuls of fizzy drinks, out of hand games of truth-or-dare. If he closed his eyes he could imagine he was eleven again, and he was sleepily tearing through packets of sweets and bars of chocolate. Hawke wondered what Fenris was like as a child, if he was as undeniably insufferable as most little boys were. He tugged the duvet to his lips and opened his eyes again.

“The springs are digging into my back.” he said finally.

“My pillow feels like a brick.” Fenris said, and the light shifted over him as he sat up, took the pillow and plumped it ruthlessly. Hawke heard the depressing _poof_ as he lay his head back down.

Hawke watched the shadows on Fenris’ face distort.

“You’re staring again.” he whispered.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

Hawke seemed to sleep easier after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece of art mentioned in this chapter is The Cliffs At Etretat by Claude Monet, and the book Fenris was reading is Van Gogh: The Complete Paintings by Rainer Metzger and Ingo F. Walther - I recommend it to anyone who loves Van Gogh as much as I do (which is a lot).


	8. death

They rose before dawn, pulling on thick fleeces and scarves that could have swallowed them whole. Isabela checked out of the hotel without tipping, and they trundled down that awful, fragmented road with a dreary tiredness.

When the sun broke the horizon in a single moment of blood red light, Hawke was glad he made the trip. It was all he could do to capture this moment on his phone and watch the clouds pass like moths, caught on a fluttering autumn wind, drinking in the yellow of the ocean’s reflection. It was a pure moment, one untainted, one untouched. In those few short minutes of red and pink, before the light faded and the sky became grey, Hawke felt something in the pit of his stomach settle.

The clouds killed the moment, blotting out the sun in a slate coloured smear, and Isabela scooped a handful of pebbles from the floor. She threw one at the water, and laughed at the unceremonious _plop_ noise it made.

“Want to skip stones with me, Garry?” she asked.

“There is no Garry here, so I guess the answer must be no.” Hawke ruffled the crown of hair that popped out of her bandana like a shiny, black mushroom. Isabela pretended to be annoyed, but a giggle broke her exaggerated pout.

“ _Fine_ , do you want to skip stones with me, _Hawke_?” she stood on her toes, gripping Hawke’s shoulders to keep her balance.

“Alright.” Hawke smirked in return, pluck a smooth, flat pebble from the plethora that Isabela cradled like a lump grey child in her arms. “You going to skip stones with us, Fenris?”

Fenris shook his head politely. He brushed the sand from a long rock that stretched over the sand, sitting down when he deemed it clean enough.

“I’m fine here, thank you.”

Hawke nodded, and Isabela took off, screeching like a banshee, towards the surf.

“Time to wreck the ocean with my skills.” she readied a pebble in her hands, and swung it like a frisbee over the water. It survived two skips before sinking into the water with a muted gurgle. “Whoever gets the least skips has to drive home – wait, no, I don’t trust you with my car. Whoever gets the least skips has to buy the other a drink next Friday.”

“Deal.” Hawke grinned, and threw a pebble. His reached four skips, and Isabela frowned with tremendous gusto.

“Show off.”

“You know me.”

When Isabela reached a shady six skips - which Hawke hadn’t counted properly, and were probably product of Isabela’s awful cheating and exaggeration combo move – she announced herself winner. Partly out of fear of losing, Hawke assumed, but also because she’d spotted something half way across the beach that she wanted to check out.

“You go keep grumpy company, I want to see what that thing is.” she sprung over the sand, waving her arms excitedly, “With any luck it’s _treasure_.”

Hawke weighed up the likelihood of whether she was joking about that or not as he made his way back of the grey dunes.

“She’s just a big kid.” Hawke sighed fondly, taking a seat on the rocks beside Fenris. Fenris had his legs stretched out, his sketchbook propped on the slight crook of his knees. He’d sketched the jagged wave sky line onto his page, sand creeping in with swipes of the flat side of his pencil, and a rushed figure throwing stones scribbled into the left corner.

“Says the hairy toddler himself.” Fenris muttered.

“Oi.” Hawke nudged Fenris’ shoulder gently, but there was no malice. The brief contact sparked an electric shiver down his arm, and he kept the smile his teeth were fighting to make hidden beneath the seal of his lips. Fenris’ smile was a pale, beautiful line.

He seemed so at home like this. Fenris was the very embodiment of autumn – a cool, crisp breeze; damp leaf-rot underfoot; the warning pitter-patter of rain and the distant rumbling of thunder that follows soon after. Underneath the wash of grey sky and atop the dark sands, his calm, confusing eyes didn’t seem so accusing, so hurt. Every minute wandering of his pupils wasn’t to check his back, or watch his step; it was to admire, to remember. Hawke wanted to commit this moment to memory.

“Boys, look!” Isabela’s shriek broke the silence, and Hawke looked up to see her waddling over with the expression of a hyper infant. She held a mermaid’s wig of seaweed – definitely not treasure then - each grotesque, bulging pod shimmering with a film of salt and sand. “It’s all slimy.”

As if to prove her point, she ripped a chunk from the seaweed, tossing it playfully at Hawke - who made a very unmanly noise as it hit his shoe, followed by an unadulterated cackle from Isabela.

She dropped the seaweed with a resounding slap, and pulled another piece from her trouser pocket.

“This bit’s dry though.” she held it out to Fenris, “I thought you’d like it, I know you like to stick things in your sketchbook.”

Fenris took the seaweed from Isabela with a nod of thanks, and dug through his satchel before revealing a small stick of glue. Isabela and Hawke watched intently as he glued it the corner of his sketch. It was strange how much charm a simple keepsake could add.

That was something Hawke had noticed, in fact. On the rare occasion that Fenris would leave his sketchbook open somewhere, usually left on a random page, Hawke would take a quick glance at whatever he stuck there that wasn’t art. He remembered seeing train tickets worn till they were soft and creased; napkins with café’s logos printed on them in bold brown letters; receipts from every and any store; old, high contrast Polaroid photographs that Hawke assumed must have been from Fenris’ college days, as in many Isabela graced the background with a typically 90s outfit and a solo cup of alcohol.

“I found some rock pools,” she crouched down onto her heels, examining Fenris’ sketch book with that bird like quality she had. “I doubt there’s anything _really_ interesting in them but do you want to go check them out?”

Hawke glanced at Fenris, who nodded listlessly, closing his sketchbook and sliding it into his satchel.

The rock pools were small and unclear. Muddy water obscured whatever may lay within the depths. Isabela found another _huge_ clump of seaweed and shook it jokingly. Thick strings of slime flew off it, hitting Hawke in the face and eliciting another shocked squeak from him. Fenris managed to catch a photo of a small orange crab that scuttled fleetingly over the rocks before disappearing again into the foggy water. On two occasions Hawke found himself almost falling into one of the pools.

“Maybe we should get going, boys.” Isabela cooed somewhere down the line. She dropped her beloved seaweed, holding her hand out the sky and wrinkling her nose, “I think I can feel rain.”

Fenris stood from where was leant over a deep pool, craning his head to the overcast sky.

“I just want to get a photo of the beach quickly,” he said, “I want to know I have the right colours when I paint that sketch later. You two get to the car, you’ll end up soaked.”

The clouds turned soot grey quickly, and Hawke and Isabela huddled in the car with a lingering sense of anticipation. Hawke, sat in the front this time, could still see Fenris standing out on the dunes, giving the coast one last look.

He was framed by the skyline. An ethereal figure cast against the canvas of a grey autumn horizon. The rain came loud and proud like bullets from the sky, and drenched him in a single pelting of unrelenting icy sheets.

Fenris bolted to the car, only tugging the hood of his jacket up as he was almost to the door. Isabela tutted as he slid, soaking, into the backseat of her car.

“You’re going to get my seats all soggy.” she frowned.

“This is payback for when you spilt paint water on my examination piece.”

“That was years ago.”

“I’m a bitter man.”

“I know.”

The drive back to Kirkwall was uneventful as any, and Hawke only just escaped being roped into brunch with his mother when he went to pick up Dog. The great lump had no doubt been spoiled beyond the point of no return, and he gave a satisfied _barlp_ as he jumped into the backseat and lay his head in Fenris’ lap.

Isabela dropped Hawke and Fenris home for quarter to eleven and promised to come see them during the week. Dog was scratching at the door and Hawke was ready to drop into his bed and sleep for the entire weekend.

He only just missed his goal.

He woke at seven in the evening, rolled up like a cushiony taco in his duvet, wearing only his underwear and feeling very, _very_ hungry. Between the gurgles of his stomach and the sound of rain pattering outside he could hear Dog yapping happily, and the sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing.

Throwing on a loose t-shirt and his dressing gown, Hawke made his way downstairs. He was definitely in need of a shower later.

Fenris was unpacking shopping bags in the kitchen, Dog at his feet, gnawing happily on a dog-chew. The hood of his jacket was hanging low over his head, and he was slotting packaged food and bottles into appropriate places in the cupboards.

“Oh good, I was in need of a snack.” Hawke muttered.

Fenris jumped at his voice, a carton of eggs in his hands almost falling to an unfortunate end. Dog barked and scrambled to Hawke’s feet, pawing at his bare knees.

“Yes, hello you, good evening.” Hawke grinned. He looked back up at Fenris, who was tugging his hood down and biting his lip. “Sorry if I startled you.”

“No…no, it’s fine.” Fenris said, turning back to the shopping, “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

With as much grace as a half-awake, hungry man with a Dog stuck to his legs could have, Hawke reached out and snatched a loose packet of crisps from the sideboard. Smoky Bacon, not his favourite flavour, but it would have to do.

He took a seat at the table, and, tilting his head, was caught off guard by the gentle glint of glass in the dimmed light of the kitchen. Two bottles of wine sat beside each other, and Hawke eyed them questioningly, turning his gaze to Fenris,

“Planning on getting drunk?” he laughed.

“Would it be bad if I said yes?” Fenris caught the neck of one of the bottles, a deep red, and stared at its label intently, “Forgive me if it seems outlandish but I considered heavy drinking a hobby back in France. It’s been a while since I got completely hammered. Decided it was about time.”

That was something Hawke hadn’t expected from Fenris. Though, given everything Isabela had told him about whatever the hell went down in France, he wouldn’t blame Fenris for drinking excessively.

But there was a faraway look in Fenris’ eyes, one that Hawke couldn’t pin to any one emotion. Melancholic though it was, there could be no denying that a bitter-sweet sort of pull danced over Fenris’ lips.

“Mind if one more joins the party?” Hawke found himself saying, “Getting plastered alone sort of just seems a bit sad, don’t you think?”

Fenris laughed, wine bottle in hand,

“Yes, a bit.” he uncapped the bottle swiftly, grabbing a glass from one of the cabinets and filling it to its rim. He chucked back almost half of it in one go, “I hope you like your wine bitter.”

_Kind of how I like my men_.

Hawke would actually have jumped out the window if he’d said that out loud.

Drunk Fenris, as it turns out, was a grinning, ranting, fumbling over-sharer with a penchant for missing his mouth when he took a gulp. His voice also got very throaty, and that _did_ things to Hawke, but he wasn’t going to elaborate on that.

Hawke admitted they looked a right state, after deciding that being drunk in the kitchen was already philistine enough, they retired to the living room and drowned their tongues in red. Hawke looked like a depressed, divorced father going through his mid-life crisis, clad in only his underwear and t-shirt. His dressing gown was open by this point, the belt abandoned somewhere in the kitchen. Fenris was swimming in his clothes, slouched back into the cushions and appearing smaller than he’d ever been. He swirled the wine in his glass in such a vaudevillian way that Hawke half expected him to start waxing awful poetic in an equally as awful posh accent.

He didn’t, thank God.

They’d managed to crowd themselves onto the deflated sofa together, dragged the coffee table from the middle of the room towards them, so that they didn’t have to stand up to refill their glasses. Fenris was cross legged, crushed into the corner of the sofa. Hawke had his legs stretched over the coffee table, feet propped on a pile of unread newspapers and coasters.

“We’re a mess.” Hawke was hiccupping at this point, his lips positioned constantly over the rim of his glass. He was ready to take a sip should he need to, but he remained giggling over the cusp like a school girl after her first shot.

“I’ve had worse.” Fenris leant forward, grabbing at the second wine bottle, topping his glass which wasn’t even half empty yet, “Much, much worse.”

“Like?” Hawke finally took a gulp from his glass, feeling the wine wetting his moustache.

Fenris furrowed his brow, dragging one finger along the edge of his glass.

“Hmm,” he took a measured sip, “I used to drink for hours. Sometimes I’d be high as well.” he laughed at that, “I don’t recommend that by the way. Weed and wine together is actually quite nice and cannabis infused wine is even a thing but…munchies and a hangover is not quite as good a combination.”

“I can imagine…” Hawke wiped the wine from his moustache, “Why did you? Drink so much, I mean. Do you just like getting buzzed?”

“That.” Fenris nodded, “And also that I just…I had a lot to forget. The drinking helped.” he averted his gaze, “I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to hear this.”

“Oh, no, If you…if you need to get it out you can talk to me.” Hawke leant forward, elbows on his knees. He knew must look quite ridiculous, in his current get up and drunken twitchy eye. He still wasn’t sure what that nervous tick was. “I won’t judge, I promise.”

Fenris stared uncertainly at his hand, then to his glass. He necked his wine and then refilled his glass. Hawke knew desperation when he saw it.

“My ex was…the main reason for my drinking.” Fenris watched the light dancing over the sheen of the wine, the glisten of the droplets that had been spilt on the coffee table, “I hadn’t even really _wanted_ to go to France with him I just…felt like I didn’t have a choice.”

Hawke kept quiet, he knew this was Fenris’ time to vent. He had no right to pry here, it was Fenris’ choice to tell him this. Even if he was sinfully drunk and all his sense was out the window.

“He’d already been living in France for years, had this huge old house on the coast. Rich beyond comparison to anyone I’d ever known, knew all these other wealthy, well-to-do people all over Europe.” Fenris sighed deeply, “Sometimes it seemed like he was bribing me to stay with him – with his constant supply of gifts and trips around France.”

He grew quiet, and Hawke considered his next words carefully.

“Sounds – “

“Like I was leeching?” Fenris cut in almost before Hawke had finished his first word, as if he knew what was coming, knew how he wanted to reply.

“I was going to say sounds like a relationship with an older guy.” Hawke finished, softly.

Fenris ducked his head,

“Hmm.”

“Was it?” Hawke didn’t want to push his luck, but he was deathly curious.

Fenris raked a hand over his face, sighing.

“Yeah.”

Hawke held his wine glass in a knuckle whitening grip.

“I never really saw you as…” Hawke rewound, tried to find the most appropriate way to word this, “Well you know, I can’t imagine you willingly dating a Redenbacher.”

“Redenbacher?” Fenris raised an eyebrow.

“Y’know, Redenbacher? Like a rhino, a manther?” Hawke ran a nervous hand through his hair, recalling long nights scrolling through Urban Dictionary on his phone and coming across that particular definition, “The male version of a cougar basically.”

“Oh.” Fenris said, “Yes, well, it was willing for a while. I was perfectly happy for about nine months until I realised how manipulative he was.”

Hawke felt as though the bottom of his stomach may drop away. The alcohol pooling thick and red in his stomach was suddenly sour, curdling, clawing at his stomach angrily. He frowned, spoke softly,

“What do you mean _manipulative_?”

There was a long moment of silence before Fenris looked up. When his eyes met Hawke’s he felt like a penny had been dropped in his lungs. His breath was heavy, he leant forward again, listened carefully to what Fenris said.

“He always…got me round to his way of thinking. He made me think I wanted things – wanted to _do_ things that I…didn’t want.” Fenris practically dunked his head into his wine glass, “Hell, I did _everything_ he asked of me even after I realised all I wanted from him was a roof over my head and his expensive tastes in wine.” Fenris wrinkled his nose at his own wine, as if the smell, so close and warm and real, reminded him of his time spent in France. Or perhaps time wasted would be a better term.

“How long were you with him?” Hawke tilted his head. He could hear the softness in his own voice; he hoped he didn’t sound condescending.

“Four years.” Fenris said flatly.

Fenris was drunk enough and tired enough by now, and though he was obviously aware of Hawke’s concerned gaze trained to his shoulder, he reached once more for the bottle of wine. He carefully tipped the contents of his glass back into the bottle, with a steadiness a drunken man should not have. He abandoned his now empty glass on the coffee table, drinking unapologetically from the bottle. His lips were red when he pulled back from a long swig.

“Blimey, that’s…” Hawke watched the way Fenris’ Adam’s-Apple bobbed as he drunk, the way he stared at the label as if unable to read it. Fenris’ eyes met Hawke’s like tiny discs of steel. “That’s a long time to be with someone you can’t stand. And to, uh, _do_ things for him.”

Severe façade out the window, Fenris shrugged, took another long swig from the wine, and settle the bottle in between his feet. He ran his thumb thoughtfully up the neck.

“Yeah, well like I said – he was manipulative and…threatening.”

“He threatened you?” Hawke’s voice cracked on the _he_.

“Frequently.”

Hawke’s glass was long forgotten by now, and he stowed it away on the coffee table in a tipsy fumble of coasters and fingers. He got in his own way, and knitted his eyebrows together. He knew he looked awul.

“I’m…I’m pretty sure that abuse, Fenris.”

“As was the rest of it,” Fenris was eerily calm, emulating that unusual steadiness when pouring his drunk, but instead with his carefully blank facial expression, his easily sloped shoulders. His eyes showed not even a glimmer of tears. Hawke mulled over whether Fenris was very brave or very messed up. He decided on a bit of both. “I’m aware, Hawke. Painfully so.”

“You could probably get him arrested you know.” Hawke swung his legs from the coffee table, sitting back on his thighs and shuffling closer to Fenris on the sofa. He kept a boundary, a soft, fuzzy wall made by the back of dressing gown bunched around his ankles. Fenris’ eyes softened. “Or at least fined. That is if, um, by _do_ things you meant…” he didn’t want to say it. Hawke trailed off, because if he said it, it would be real. If he said it he would have acknowledged it, and if he acknowledges it, it will never leave him alone.

“I know I could.” Fenris voice was quiet, and he pressed the pads of his thumbs to the lip of the wine bottle, licking the stains from his skin. “I know. But he’d just bribe his way out of court and lure me back in. That’s how it always happens.”

“This has happened before?”

“…Sort of.” he had a familiar look in his eye. Brought on by the alcohol or not, Hawke wasn’t sure, but it was the same doleful, faraway look that Varric had when he told a _real_ story for once. A story that broke a few hearts here and there.

Fenris looked back at the bottle.

“We lived in a rural area, near the sea, like I said.” he raised the bottle to his lips, but barely let them ghost of the dark liquid dripping through the ridges of the cusp. Hawke couldn’t deny that he was staring rather intently at Fenris’ mouth. “No other houses for miles, but there was this road that seemed to stretch out forever. The road was my set boundary – I could walk down it in either direction until I saw signs, then I had to turn back.” Fenris took a rueful chug, “Sometimes I’d just stand there, on the road, look out into the distance…at all the places I couldn’t go.” a mirthless snigger, “Once I was ridiculously high, and I went to stand in the road but I noticed a dead goat just…splattered across the asphalt.”

Hawke thought of the drawing of the dead goat in Fenris’ sketchbook. Its cranium split like a rotting fruit, its jaded eyes, the putrid trail of drying blood over its fur. There had been such a visceral tug on that drawing when Hawke saw it – though subtle then – and now he understood why. He understood the weight behind the drawing, despite feeling that weight for so long, gone unexplained.

“Cars hardly ever passed through there, so you can imagine me, high as all hell, entranced by some slowly baking road kill…I felt like I understood that goat…rotting, trapped in the heat, bound to that road.” Hawke felt his gut twist, he was almost too uncomfortable to continue listening to Fenris talk, “Ever since I was absolutely certain that something inside me was decaying. I’m almost convinced it still is.”

The living room fell silent, the wine in Fenris’ hands an anchor. Hawke scratched a thick hand through his beard.

“Fenris I don’t know what to – “

“Then don’t say anything.” Fenris interrupted. “It might be better that way.”

He stood slowly, the neck of the wine still tight between his fingers. Hawke could think of someone else’s neck he’d like to be between them. The tightness in his stomach and chest hurt, but it was cathartic, a little pain to imagine it with someone else – going two different ways.

Hawke was caught off guard by a hand drifting over his left cheek, and a chaste, wine wet kiss placed to his right.

Fenris disappeared upstairs without another word, the wine bottle pressed flush against his chest, eyes downcast.

Hawke felt like throwing up.

He didn’t, but he stood for a very long time in the shower, head pressed against the wall and trying to rid himself of all the thoughts that plagued the inside of his skull. Drying off in his bedroom he held the towel as if it was something special: he stared at it, and then he stared at the old, framed X-Files poster on his wall, the Game of Thrones one next to that. His eyes fell upon something new every few minutes, and stayed there until he’d dragged away all the colour from them, all the memories, all the light.

He wrapped himself in a blanket and stared at his phone screen, wiping nonchalantly at his running nose.

 

**Garrett (21:07)**

**Do you ever just get really randomly depressed and you dont know why**

Hawke knew why, he knew _exactly_ why his stomach hurt and his head was swimming and the bile at the back of his throat was dry and sharp and acidic. He wasn’t about to go tattling.

 

**Varric (21:08)**

**Have you been reading sad fanfiction and listening to johnny cash again**

**Varric (21:08)**

**Because I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this hawke**

**Garrett (21:08)**

**No no no its not that**

**Garrett (21:09)**

**I honestly just feel**

**Garrett (21:09)**

**Really really down**

**Varric (21:10)**

**Do you want me to send you memes to cheer you up?**

**Garrett (21:10)**

**Varric no**

Around twenty Lenny faces appeared, smiling knowingly at Hawke through his phone screen. He scowled and exited the conversation.

Ten minutes later he got another text,

 

**Anders (21:23)**

**Varric said you were feeling down…is everything alright, hawke**

**Garrett (21:23)**

**Yeah! yeah im fine im just,, not very happy at the moment??**

**Garrett (21:24)**

**I dont know why tho**

**Garrett (21:24)**

**I guess things just kind of got Too Real for me for a sec**

**Anders (21:24)**

**Do you need to talk**

**Garrett (21:25)**

**No its fine dont worry about me**

**Garrett (21:25)**

**Im sure ill be okay**

**Anders (21:26)**

**Alright, take care of yourself hawke, good night**

**Garrett (21:26)**

**Goodnight!!!!!**

Hawke slipped his phone into his bedside drawer, deciding to ignore it for the rest of the night. He groaned into his pillow, and looked up with a pout to see his door edging open gently.

Dog pattered across the floor and plopped himself down on the foot of the bed. Panting and dribbling, he rolled onto his back and barked in his best _Please love me_ tone. Hawke gave him a sad smile, and closed the door before scratching Dog’s ears lovingly.

“Why am I so bad at communication, Dog?” he said, “Why can’t I talk to people without being sarcastic or awkward?”

Dog barked in return.

“You’d make a wonderful therapist.”

Dog barked again.

“And I am also still naked, aren’t I?” Hawke dragged the blankets over his groin and flopped down in bed, “Society can’t pressure me into wearing clothes. I’ll sleep naked.”

Dog nestled himself within the cove where the duvet dipped between Hawke’s legs. He tilted his head, eyes shiny and brown, his tongue lolling out in with a gross, wet slapping.

“You’re so pure.” Hawke cupped Dog’s soft head in his huge hands, cooing to him like a mother does a child, “So innocent. You’re a good dog, Dog.”

Dog crawled suddenly, like a flash of furry lightning, he was sat on Hawke’s chest and licking his face into submission. Hawke sputtered, trying to push 82kg of slobbering dog off of him. There was an awful, heart stopping moment when Hawke thought Dog’s tongue had caught inside his mouth – it turned out to be his ear.

“Alright, alright!” Hawke shoved Dog into the pillow beside him, subduing him best he could in a protective wrap of duvet and blankets. “Thank you for trying to cheer me up you fluffy mess. Now let me sleep – “

He turned his head to the clock, pouting at the time.

“…at this outrageously early hour.”

Hawke woke with his head pillowed on Dog’s back, his nose running. Pale grey light was cast in a hazy triptych over his bed, bending at an abrupt zigzag as it fell in an ethereal line of silk to the floor. The back of his skull ached with the dull drone of yesterday’s wine, still swimming in what felt like every fluid inch of his body. Dog whined instinctively when Hawke sat up, throwing off his duvet and running his fingers down his nose bridge.

**10:13** his alarm clock read. Almost fourteen full hours of sleep and Hawke still felt like he was drinking codeine in gallons. His throat was thick as he swung his legs over the mattress. He searched his drawers for underwear and sat on the floor for a while once he’d dragged himself into his briefs and tube socks that he’d owned since secondary school. Giving them a quick glance he wondered if they were his same thick, itchy pair that he had to wear with too tight trainers and high cut shorts for P.E during his school years. He thought of long grass stains spreading up pale clothes; sports shirts, tucked in the front and hanging out like tails in the back; frayed laces, untied and dragging through the mud and grass and dandelions.

“Never thought I’d miss school.” Hawke smiled to himself, Dog flopping off the bed and beside him on the floor. His stupidly big paw settled on Hawke’s knee. “You dogs are lucky…no school, or responsibilities…”Hawke sighed, “No stupid crushes on people with heart breaking baggage.”

He decided he needed breakfast.

After he got dressed, of course.

Juice was good. Really good. In the minute and a half it took for Hawke’s porridge to warm up, he drank three small glasses of grape juice. He ate his porridge in silence, staring at the clock on the kitchen wall, watching the second hand move in jolting increments. He managed not to drop any porridge on his trousers, which seemed custom whenever he ate any sort of breakfast food. Dog seemed to approve of his breakfast too, as his head was practically buried in his food bowl.

“You’re a very greedy a dog.” Hawke sniffed, realising again that his nose was running awfully. “I think I’m getting a cold…”

The house phone ringing shrilly interrupted his train of thought, and Hawke sauntered reluctantly to the corridor to pick up the call.

“Hello?”

“Why aren’t you answering any of my texts, you plonker?” Isabela screeched down the line. Her voice crackled with the static interference of Hawke’s old, unloved house phone.

“Oh.” Hawke hadn’t retrieved his phone from his night stand drawer this morning, “Damn. Sorry, Bela, I forgot…”

“Mm, doesn’t matter, don’t really care anymore.” she cut him off quickly. Hawke could practically hear her twining the retro cork screw curl of her telephone cord around here finger, pursing her lips and kicking his legs back and forth on her bed. “But!” she almost yelled.

“But?”

“Varric told me you were being a sad little lumberjack,” just like her cord twirling, her pout too was audible. “And then Anders texted me and said you were being weird about it.”

“…Yeah?” Hawke leant heavily against the hallway wall. He felt like if he pushed hard enough he could force his shoulder through the plaster. He’d been feeling heavier as of late.

“So I need to cheer you up immediately.” she said, “That means I’m taking you out for coffee.”

“Isabela, we’ve seen each other every day this weekend.” Hawke muttered.

“Quality time is important for a healthy friendship, Garry.”

Hawke’s groan could probably cause an earthquake.

“If I let you come down will you promise not to call me Garry?”

“Of course, Garry.”

“Why are you like this.”

“You love me.”

Isabela arrived at half past eleven, looking like a sunflower in bloom in her bright yellow t-shirt and baggy denim jacket. She waved enthusiastically through the kitchen window as Hawke jotted down a quick note for Fenris, which he stuck to the fridge:

_i went out for coffee with isabela, dog is asleep in the living room, i’ll be back this afternoon  ( hope you’re okay after last night??? i’m here to talk if you need me )_

“Wow, you look _ill_.” Isabela snorted as Hawke buckled in his seatbelt, “And hungover.”

“I drank a lot of wine last night.” Hawke watched his breath fog up the window, flicking his gaze to Isabela out of the corner of his eye. Her mouth pulled at an odd angle.

“Garrett Hawke drinking wine?” she said incredulously, “What _has_ got into you?”

_Too many feelings_.

“I drank a lot of wine with Fenris.” he added.

Isabela’s mouth formed a silent ‘o’ shape, nodding as she sat patiently at the street junction.

“Yeah, that makes more sense.” the grin she was fighting off was obvious, “So, drunk Fenris. What a guy, huh?”

“I’m not entirely certain drunk Fenris isn’t a manic depressive.” Hawke thought of the way Fenris went from grinning and gesticulating like a children’s story teller to becoming the most sombre, subdued man to ever be sickeningly drunk on cheap wine. He reached toward Isabela’s mirror, plucking the Yankee candle air freshener from where it swung distractingly. “What the hell is Strawberry Buttercream?”

Isabela slapped at his hands as he tried to bend the card of the freshener.

“Well I never really knew what his medication was for…I don’t think he’s bipolar though, Hawke.” Isabela frowned, “Depressed, maybe.” she snatched the air freshener from his hands, “And I’ve learnt not to question the names of Yankee candles – there’s a Camouflage scented one.”

“Carver’s birthday present for next year.” Hawke leant his neck back on the headrest, plush ceiling low enough to brush his nose.

“Oh no no, there’s one called Be Thankful, get him that.” Isabela cackled in tandem to rolling down her window.

Hawke sighed, the ghost of a laugh rolling off his tongue in a watery ripple. He still felt drunk, still felt like everything he breathed through his nose was ammonia and everything he breathed through his mouth was the thickest form of crude oil. He kept thinking of Fenris waxing poetic about the dead goat that picked him apart from the inside out, he couldn’t expel the feeling of Fenris’ lips ghosting his cheek in the wine reeking living room, his mouth on Hawke’s mouth in the hotel room with its flickering lamplight and busted old television.

The coffee shop that Isabela parked neatly in front of looked like it had been dragged straight of a teenage hipster’s dreams. It was typically industrial, illuminated with soft orange lights. Through the window Hawke thought he could see a small band playing.

“The Box?” Hawke raised an eyebrow at the paint peeling sign, hanging above the window and slightly rusting chains. “What kind of name is _The Box_?”

“It’s the _hottest_ place around.” she read mockingly from a poster plastered above the door.

“…What?”

Isabela smirked wildly, unbuckling her seat belt and hopping out the car.

“You’ll get it later.” she opened Hawke’s door for him and took his arm. Her car locked with a familiar _blip blip!_ as they entered the shop.

Hawke was immediately hit with the overpowering scent of coffee beans and incense. He coughed as soon as he entered, and two of the baristas started laughing knowingly.

“Why does it smell so _strong_?” Hawke rasped, sitting beside Isabela at what could only be describe as a bar – Hawke had never been in a coffee shop laid out like a bar, admittedly, it was a good idea.

Isabela shook her hood with a sly grin, and asked a barista with curly black hair for some ridiculous caramel chocolate frappuchino mumbo jumbo that Hawke for the life of him couldn’t pronounce.

“Oh, and a vanilla iced coffee for newbie over here.”

The barista laughed as she turned to make the drinks, and Hawke wondered what joke he was missing out on.

“Seriously,” he coughed again, “If you brought me here to cheer me up I don’t think it’s working, I’m more likely to get a headache in here.”

She laughed again – not at all helpful, Hawke noted – and leant forward. She lowered her voice as she stooped beside Hawke’s ear.

“It’s to cover up the _other_ smell.”

“What other smell?” Hawke frowned as Isabela pulled away. She looked very pleased with herself, familiar smug cat grin and deftly laced fingers.

“Take a good long whiff, Hawke.” she said through her teeth, “What else can you smell?”

Hawke closed his eyes and inhaled, giving his lungs a long time to deflate. He furrowed his brow, opening his eyes again.

“I don’t know, Isabela. It’s like – like a kind of…oily smell?” he let his gaze fall over the rest of the café, “Herby?”

No one else in the café seemed to be swayed by the smell, they were sat at their tables or their plush armchairs, drinking peacefully from their cups and mugs. They all seemed…calm, jaded. A group of girls in the corner were giggling wildly, whilst a small, very indie looking congregation of friends were bobbing their heads in time with the slow music coming from the band near the back.

The barista placed their drinks on the bar, and Isabela slipped the money into her hands.

Hawke didn’t think it was possible, but he somehow managed to frown deeper. He turned his head, towards the bare back wall: simple, white, illuminated with three clear blue lights. Some number of doors lined the wall, all shut, whitewashed, and carefully blank of any sort of sign other than a small ‘Authorisation Needed’.

“You’ve been to Amsterdam, right?” Isabela purred smugly as she stirred her drink.

Realisation hit Hawke like a freight train.

“Isabela, we are friends with a _police officer_.” he hissed.

Isabela shrugged.

“I didn’t even bring you to smoke directly,” she said, “I thought a second hand high might calm you down – “

“We are still in a _high café_ – Aveline would kill us if she found out, I…I - !”

“Hawke, honey, we live in probably the weirdest, smallest ‘small weird town’ cliché in Britain – you think Aveline doesn’t know about this place?”

“…she does?”

“She _knows_ Varric and I come here on the weekends for brownies.”

“Pot brownies?”

“Regular brownies. We only come here for the atmosphere, we don’t smoke.” Isabela barked out a laugh, “Then Aveline _would_ kill us.”

Hawke glanced again at the doors on the back wall, watched as one door creaked slowly open, and a girl breathing heavily emerged, removing her baseball cap to flatten her hair.

“Do they go back there?” Hawke tried to catch a glimpse of the room the girl had emerged from, the door shut far too quickly, and all he managed to catch was a block strip of pink light emanating from the small room.

“Yeah,” Isabela crossed her legs, craning her head over shoulder to get a good look as a boy in a grey hoody propped the door open for his friends. “Backrooms.”

Isabela smirked around the tip of her straw, strangling it between too white teeth.

“Do you get the name yet?”

Hawke’s blanked her.

“How did I describe this place Hawke?” Isabela oscillated back and forth on her barstool with an impish grin, and Hawke gave her a _look_.

“…You said it was ‘the hottest place around’ in an awful game show host voice.”

“C’mon, Hawke, Urban Dictionary user of the year – use that big old imagination of yours.” Isabela prodded him sharply in the forehead, and he rubbed the spot with a pout. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“…No?”

“Hotboxing, Hawke.” she relented, leaning back and her seat and taking a long sip from her straw, “It’s a joke about hotboxing.”

“Oh! Oh…”Hawke took a shameful sip of his own weird creamy drink, “That makes sense.”

Isabela patted his shoulder condescendingly, and Hawke brushed her hand away.

“Anyways,” he sighed, “It’s not exactly the best plan you’ve ever had. This place will probably just end up stressing me out more – I’ll worry that we’ll be arrested and if that doesn’t happen then all this incense will give me a migraine.”

He sniffed violently, his sinuses clogging up near the bridge of his nose.

“…or another runny nose.”

“Ew.” Isabela rooted around in her jacket pocket and produced a small pack of Kleenex. She threw one at Hawke, keeping a good distance between them. “What about the second hand high?”

“That was a bad idea too.” Hawke blew his nose with both the strength and volume of a bear with flu – a comparison Merrill had made some years ago that Isabela and Anders had exploited due to its more literal undertones. He tried to hand the tissue back to Isabela; she, wisely, declined. “I can’t even smell the weed through the scent of coffee and hipsters, it’s not as if I could get high off it.”

“Could you get high off of coffee and hipsters, though?”

“No.”

“Just checking.”

Hawke turned his drink over in his hands, taking a sip, and then giving a prolonged sigh.

“You didn’t need to take me out, Isabela.” he said quietly.

Isabela gave a knowing smile, but her eyes were soft.

“Why, because you have a good enough supply of coffee and hipsters at home?”

Hawke laughed, nudging Isabela lightly in the shoulder.

“Whilst that is true I don’t think my coffee is as good as this,” he sniffed, “Also I don’t think Fenris would appreciate that comment.”

Isabela shrugged, and kneaded an encouraging hand into Hawke’s shoulder. One handed massages were not something he was often given, but he appreciated the gesture.

“He knows I love him even if he is an insufferable art nerd.” she grinned.

Hawke smiled, but it did not come unaccompanied – a long, low sigh escaped his lungs for what he felt must have been the hundredth time that day.

“…You didn’t really want to come out, did you?” Isabela said, submission heavy in her tone.

“Not particularly.” Hawke lolled his head onto her shoulder, “I think I just need a nap.”

“Finish your coffee then, lovely.” Isabela wrenched the lid off her own and downed it in one, “I’ll get you home and you can sleep through ‘til Monday.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

The house was quiet when they returned, and Isabela demanded on accompanying Hawke inside to ensure he didn’t ‘do anything stupid’. What she was insinuating Hawke had no idea. It definitely had nothing to do with the last time Hawke was sad and he got himself very drunk and passed out on the sofa in a puddle of his own vomit and self-pity.

Nothing to do with that at all.

“You call me irresponsible,” Hawke countered in a comically loud voice, “But _you_ are the one who took me to a high café to _cheer me up_.”

“Cannabis relaxes people!” Isabela exclaimed, slapping a hand over her heart in mock offense, “And I took you there so you could _relax_!”

They both collapsed into a fit of giggles, Isabela pulling out a chair for herself and Hawke leaning against the fridge. He noticed the note he’d left there this morning was gone - Fenris had seen it then.

“Imagine you smoking weed though,” she simpered, “Sweet little Garrett Hawke, high on something other than life for once.”

Hawke opened the fridge door and reached for the grape juice, uncapping it and drinking straight from the carton. Isabela grimaced at that.

“Seeing you stoned would be hilarious though.” she drew her knees up to her chin, resting against her thighs as she watched Hawke pale through his swig of juice. “…Should we try, Hawke?”

“I honest to God have no idea _where_ we’d start trying to find weed.” Hawke replied.

“I could hook you up with some.”

Hawke almost jumped out of his skin – and half the grape juice _did_ jump out of its carton – when Fenris, leant oh so casually against the doorframe to the kitchen, decided to make himself known.

“Oh, hello Fenny.” Isabela crooned and leant up to kiss him on the cheek.

“You mean,” Hawke snatched a tea towel from the radiator and dropped to his knees, hastily trying to mop up the mess before he realised you’re supposed to start off with paper towels, “You could get, like,” he lowered his voice, “ _Real weed_.”

Isabela snort laughed into the back of her palm.

“First of all,” Fenris screwed a wad of paper towels into his hands and threw them gently towards Hawke. Hawke continued to fumble, “You don’t need to whisper, you’re in your own kitchen.” Fenris pulled out a chair next to Isabela and leant his chin in his palm, “Second of all, weed is incredibly easy to come by, especially in towns like these. It’s not that a big a thing, Hawke.” he smirked, “Loads of people smoke weed. You’d be surprised, actually.”

“Get the weed! Get the weed!” Isabela began chanting and rhythmically pounding at the table, her voice climbing an octave with each syllable.

“I don’t want to be a felon.” Hawke sobbed dramatically, swiping his papery hands through the awful mess he’d made.

“Hawke, I just said – “

“We’re friends with a police officer.”

“Hawke – “

“My mother raised me so well!”

Isabela stopped her chanting to raise an eyebrow at him and stick out her bottom lip.

“Didn’t Carver drive your car into a tree once?”

Hawke paused, “Well, yes – “

“And then Bethy tried to blame it on you.”

“Yeah, that happened too – “

“So is it really wise to assume your upbringing was _that_ exemplary?” Fenris stood from his chair and took the wet paper towels patiently from Hawke’s sticky, dripping hands. “We’re all deviants in one way or another Hawke. Sit down, I’ll deal with this.”

Hawke guiltily took the Fenris’ seat – it was still warm – beside Isabela, and watched him wring the towels out and bung them in the bin.

He did a much better job of cleaning up than Hawke did: laying a decent layer of towels over the spillage, waiting for them to soak up the worst of the damage, then laying waste to the remaining stickiness with a slightly dampened tea towel.

“Fenris used to be in charge of all spillage related accidents in college.” Isabela grinned nostalgically, knocking her toes together to reignite her weed rhythm with a vengeance. “Once I spilt maple syrup all over my quilt and _somehow_ he got it out.”

“Must be magic.” Hawke said, a tiny laugh lingering at the back of his throat.

Fenris grunted.

“If magic is rubbing at a stain for hours until it’s less noticeable then, yes, it was by some witchcraft that I managed to salvage your bed clothes, Isabela.”

“Yer a wizard, Fenny.” she purred.

“When are you leaving?”

“Rude!”

“Children please.” Hawke lay his head on his folded arms. Isabela patted his elbow gently.

“Alright, alright,” she sighed sarcastically, “I see I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’ll see you sometime next week my lovies. And you get some sleep, Garry.”

Hawke gave a half-hearted thumbs up from within his arm cage, and he heard Isabela leave with a giggle and a kissy noise to Fenris.

He felt fingers in his hair when the door shut.

“Hey.” Fenris’ voice was soft and far away. Hawke wanted him to speak like that all the time – in that exact tone, that exact volume. He raised his head gently, hoping to hear him speak again. “You’re tired.”

“Mhm.” Hawke nodded, leaning into the touch that still lingered on the back of his neck. He felt a thumb brush gently at his beard, and he smiled into the contact.

Fenris laughed breathily and Hawke felt like his chest would crumble into tiny pieces.

“Go get some sleep.” Fenris said, taking the right side of Hawke’s face into his hand. Hawke tried to act like he wasn’t nuzzling him.

“But it’s barely three…” Hawke groaned.

“You earned it.” Fenris patted his shoulder heartily, and lugged him to his feet with some effort. “Sleep through to Monday if you like, just rest.”

“That’s what Isabela said.” he spoke sleepily into his palm, rounding the kitchen and beginning his decent up the stairs.

“Okay, Hawke.” Fenris said fondly, “Just have a good sleep.”

And Hawke, heartily encouraged by all parties, slept through to Monday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	9. rebirth

On Monday evening when Hawke was in the kitchen buttering a slice of bread for no better reason than he loves bread and honestly couldn’t be asked to actually make proper dinner, Fenris made an appearance that probably changed Hawke’s life.

He laid a transparent plastic bag on the kitchen table and coughed for Hawke’s attention. Hawke wiped away the butter that was caught in his beard and asked,

“What’s in the bag?”

Fenris held it up to the light,

“Weed.”

Hawke almost choked on his bread.

Fenris smiled as he opened the ziplock of the bag, taking a whiff of the herb and grimacing.

“I told you last night,” he said, “It’s not a huge deal. At least not one huge enough to choke over.”

Hawke swallowed the bread – but not the lump in his throat – and leant against the counter in what he hoped was a casual stretch.

“So, do you have like, a bong, or - ?”

Fenris shook his head.

“I prefer spliffs. Less cumbersome.”

Hawke nodded uncertainly, stuffing the remainder of the bread in his mouth as he chewed. He kept a careful eye on Fenris, whose fingers kept twitching feverishly.

“You alright?” Hawke asked.

“Yeah,” Fenris tugged a lock of hair behind his ear, giving Hawke a reassuring smile, “It’s just been a while since I smoked. I’ve been in need of a good hit, you know?”

Hawke nodded again, even though he didn’t know at all. He knew nothing about weed. Nothing besides his dad might have smoked it in his college days but his mother had been rather tipsy when she revealed that bit of information, so Hawke had never pursued a follow up on that story.

“Are you ready to try it?” there was a glint in Fenris’ eye that Hawke hadn’t seen before, and he hardly felt he could deny him when looked so excited.

“Yeah, okay.”

They sat cross legged on the living room floor, Hawke gripping his knees with an intensity that forced the ends of his nails into his fingertips. Fenris was expertly rolling cigarette paper around the weed, keeping everything in place with nimble fingers and the tell-tale teeth in the lip concentration face.

“Where’s the dog?” Fenris asked suddenly.

“Upstairs I think, why?”

Fenris stood quickly, and shut the living room door before reclaiming his seat.

“The smoke can be bad for dogs.” he explained, “As long as we air the room and spray it with air freshener afterward he’ll be fine.”

Hawke’s heart raced for a moment, conjuring up all the awful things that could happen: Dog could die from cannabis ingestion, his mother could find out and be disappointed in him, _Carver_ could find out and try to bribe Fenris into getting weed for him, he could get stupidly high and try to do something ludicrous –

“Hey,” Fenris muttered, drawing a grey lighter out from his back pocket, “Don’t look so worried.”

Hawke’s face dropped visibly, and he began to wring his hands together.

“What if I do something stupid?” he whined, “What if I’m high as a kite and I injure myself or break something, or injure _you_ – “

“You can’t get high on your first time.” Fenris explained placidly as he placed the spliff between his teeth and lit the end. Hawke’s eyes were glued to Fenris’ mouth. “It will still relax you though…”

Fenris handed the unlit spliff to Hawke and Hawke plucked it from his fingers with his lips, trying to craft an air of calm that he definitely did not have right now. Fenris laughed softly.

He held the lighter to Hawke’s spliff, watched the end go hot red before he pulled back, smirking.

Hawke took his first exhalation, and breathed out through his nose. It tasted like dried summer grass on the lawn of his childhood home, but at the same time it tasted like the cheap cigarettes that he’d only ever smoked once during his first year of college after buying them out of grief from a grimy petrol station because his father’s death had hit like a punch to the face and he had no other coping mechanism. The back of his throat burnt the same way.

“I figured this would help…” Fenris’ mouth hung open languidly, smoke pooling above his tongue and dispersing into the air. “You seemed so antsy yesterday. Were you alright?”

“I had…” Hawke hesitated, trying to capture the smoke with his tongue the same way Fenris did, “…a lot on my mind.”

Waving his hand to disperse the smoke, Fenris inhaled the cloud that had been hovering over his lips. Hawke felt his chest tighten at how unbelievably _hot_ that was.

“I hate to pry but,” Fenris leant forward, sliding the spliff nonchalantly between his teeth, “Maybe if I knew what was worrying you I could help?”

Perhaps it was the smoke lingering heavy and thick in the air, or maybe it was the way Fenris’ eyes seemed so clear now, so bright. Hawke let the tension in his shoulders go, and let his words run like water.

“After everything you told me on Saturday I…I felt like I’d invaded your personal space.” Hawke dragged his free hand over his face, clutching the spliff desperately in the other. “You’ve been through so much and I had no right to go snooping into your life story or whatever the hell. And you were drunk too. That made me feel worse – that you were drunk and you probably only told me all that because of the wine and I…”

Hawke closed his eyes, terrified of whatever Fenris’ reaction may be.

“I was sad _for_ you, I guess.” Hawke’s hand subconsciously brought the spliff to his lips, and he took a cathartically prolonged drag before watching the smoke spiral away like a dancer’s ribbons.

He felt a hand on his knee.

“I told you everything because I wanted to, Hawke.” Fenris’ voice rumbled through the smoke like a car’s engine through the fog; Hawke was a deer stuck in the headlights, “Perhaps the wine made me a bit more talkative, and perhaps I told you more than I had planned. But I don’t regret it. I _can_ control myself under the influence. I’m not a teenager after their first vodka.”

Hawke felt the laugh creak out of his throat before he heard it, and he raised his head slowly to see Fenris smirking, hand curled protectively over his knee.

“Thanks…” Hawke said quietly, “For that, I mean. Like, uh, what you just said or – “

“I get it.”

“Okay.”

Fenris fell back, stretching out across the floor until his shoulders propped against the sofa. He kept his eyes closed as he smoked, brows for once not furrowed, and looking years younger. Hawke continued to take uncertain puffs of his spliff, every now and then casting a glance to something very illegal settled between his fingers.

“What’s it like?” Hawke asked as smoked filtered through his teeth, “Being high, I mean.”

“It depends.” Fenris cracked an eye open, smoke hanging over his lips like sea foam, “People experience it differently. I just get…mellow.”

Hawke couldn’t deny that, chin in his palm, watching Fenris stretched out languidly without a twinge of worry on his face. The spliff hung from his fingers lazily enough that if Hawke were to just barely nudge Fenris he knew it would fall.

He drew his legs up to his chest, cupping his face,

“I feel like I’m dying.” he breathed heavily, “But like – in a good way. I’ve just died in my sleep after a long happy life and now I’m going to heaven where there’ll be hundreds of dogs. Like that.”

Fenris laughed sleepily,

“That’s a view more people should have about death.” he said, “We shouldn’t be scared of something inevitable. One day you won’t be breathing anymore and that’s fine, because you won’t have to feel it.”

Hawke watched the way Fenris formed words with his lips, slowly and carefully as if frightened of snapping the letters between his teeth. Hawke held the spliff up to his line of sight, comparing the length of Fenris’ body to the creased paper and singed end.

“I want a proper Irish funeral when I die.” Hawke replied belatedly, “My dad was Irish and his funeral was awful.”

Hawke thought back to that rainy September afternoon, when everyone wore black, and the sky was black, and the soil was black, but the blackest was Hawke’s mood. He thought perhaps he would die at that funeral: his too tight shirt collar strangling him purple; his tie hanging him from the storm cloud sky above; his shoe laces untying themselves and sinking into the earth, taking him with them.

He didn’t cry – not because he was the man of the family now – but because he couldn’t. There was no acceptance, no acknowledgement. One day he was telling his father about college over the phone, and the next Malcolm Hawke had fallen down the stairs and cracked his head open on a table unit. How could Hawke accept that when his voice was still so fresh in his head? He hadn’t, at first.

He’d sat in the back of Varric’s beat up Volkswagen with a greasy cigarette jammed between his teeth as a Bowie CD drowned out the thoughts that were threatening to strangle Hawke’s brain. Varric had sat in the front consoling Bethany over the phone, because Hawke felt himself too much a hollow man to answer.

They smoked Varric’s car out within an hour and Hawke had fallen out of the car coughing and spluttering and questioning his humanity as he crashed onto the pavement of layby with ash coating his teeth.

“How do you want your funeral to go?” Hawke felt his head smoking up like the back of Varric’s car, and pulled himself out of sour memories to instead glue his eyes on the greening bruise on Fenris’ knuckles.

“Just make sure I’m dead.” he replied.

“That would be useful, yeah.” Hawke laughed.

There was an awful gap of silence, when the thoughts in Hawke’s head were like shards of shrapnel and the word that lingered against his tongue tasted like sour milk. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, he was just rolling words around in his mouth – he bit the bullet when it came close enough to his teeth.

“So you really trust me enough to tell me all that stuff?”

“Does that not go without saying, Hawke?” Fenris raised himself on his elbows, an amused quirk to his lips as he tapped his free hand against the hardwood floor. “I deemed you trustworthy enough to move into your house after a day of knowing you.”

“Fair enough.” Hawke pooled his hands together, letting the spliff rest between the dips and creases of his skin. He watched it like perhaps cupping his hands would form a crystal ball, and he could look into it and understand every cryptic thing that came out of Fenris’ pretty mouth. “You also trusted me enough to go all the way out to some neglected coastline.” he smirked slightly, “Because honestly that sounds like a murder mystery and a half.”

Fenris laughed around his spliff, inhaling smoke like sustenance before he blew it out in gasps. Hawke tried to ignore the soft, breathy noises he was making, but the way Fenris’ eyes roamed over the expanse of his shoulders, and the owlish quirk to his head made Hawke’s own breath wheezy.

“I trusted you enough to kiss you.” he added, the dry corner of his lips tugging someway that Hawke couldn’t understand, “And to let you kiss me back.”

“Yeah…” Hawke’s fingers found the spliff like a stress reliever, pressing around the dampened end until he felt the darkness in Fenris’ gaze drop below his own radar, “Yeah, you sure did.”

Fenris shifted onto his knees, and leant forward, shoulders bunched about his ears.

“Do you know what shot gunning is?”

Hawke tensed, thought back to the nights when trawling through the Internet lulled him to sleep, when crackling audio from videos that felt voyeuristic would be the last thing he heard before he shut his eyes.  The smoke that hung from his lips felt heavier than anything he’d ever lifted.

“Yes.” he said, shortly. “I told you what Redenbacher was the other day, Fenris, I am an Urban Dictionary professional.”

Fenris held his spliff pensively, an eyebrow raising in slow tandem to the smoke that curled from between his lips.

“And yes, I would like to try it with you.”

Swallowing the laugh, Fenris pressed the spliff against his lips like a prayer, and made a throaty noise as the smoke filled his mouth. He leant forward, mouth parted enough for the smoke to bubble temptingly behind the seal of his teeth, and snaked his hand towards Hawke’s head.

Fenris’ fingers held gently to the curls at the base of Hawke’s neck, and in slow motion Hawke felt himself moving towards the smoke behind Fenris’ lips. Fenris smirked in that awful – _brilliant_ – way of his, and opened his mouth graciously as Hawke descended. Their lips met in a thick, warm circle, and the smoke, chased by Fenris’ breath, rushed into Hawke’s mouth. His lungs felt like cotton wool, and he felt Fenris’ tongue lying against his own – leaden and lazy, just pressing against the moist wall of his mouth.

He came around slowly, only when his tongue had gently wormed itself around Fenris’ mouth and probed at the slick crevices of his teeth did Hawke realise that he had lowered himself to the living room floor. His back atop the faux bear rug and smoke slowly dissipating from his mouth, a warm, heavy weight on his chest as Fenris’ hands seem to fall further and further into the tangle of his hair. The plastic head of the teeth gnashing bear that Hawke had lovingly named Steven was inches away from Hawke's own head, and he was reminded of those scenes in awful romance movies, when the trademark perfect couple collapse into each other's arms in front of the lit fire place to make ravenous love all night. But the fire wasn't lit, and there was no love making, just a lot of smoke, a lot of tension and a lot of words left unsaid floating though the air.

“Aveline is going to destroy us.” Hawke felt the last of the smoke disappear as he mumbled against Fenris’ lips. Fenris pulled away, leaning back lazily against Hawke’s thighs. He took a measured drag from the spliff and leant forward again, grinning,

“What she doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

Hawke found he couldn’t disagree, especially when Fenris was billowing another cloud of smoke between his lips. He felt like a sparkler had been lit within his lungs, like every nerve in his body crackled with some invisible energy that Fenris pressed insistently against his chest and lips. If he’d known that night when Fenris walked into the Hanged Man with the face of a man with a vendetta, that a bare two weeks later the same man would be pinning him to his living room floor and mercilessly ravaging his mouth, he would have counted his blessings right there. Truth be told, he was now. He was scouring his mind for every good deed he’d ever done, every selfless act which would allow him the privilege to hold his hands around Fenris’ waist like this.

Fenris pulled back again, but the smoke was far from gone, and it snaked out from between their mouths rapidly before rising to the ceiling.

“What?” Hawke, asked, lapping his tongue around his mouth at the numbness that was settling.

“You’re thinking too hard.” Fenris explained breathily, his pupils blown wide with either the weed or the kiss. “Just relax, that’s what this was about.”

“It’s kind of hard to relax when I’ve been thinking about kissing you on the floor since I met you.” Hawke caught one of Fenris’ wrists hastily, barely just brushing it past his lips.

Fenris smirked, pressing the pad of his thumb to Hawke’s lip.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m flattered.”

“As you should be.” Hawke laughed, and released Fenris’ wrist so he could instead wrap his arm around Fenris’ back and bring him back in. “Take another drag, would you?”

Fenris obliged happily, filling his mouth and fisting his hand into Hawke’s hair.

When Fenris’ spliff was nought more than a stub, they started taking the drags from Hawke’s, and when his in turn burnt out they lay very still on the floor, entangled.

Hawke’s heart hammered against his chest, and he was sure Fenris could feel it from where he lay, draped lazily over him. Fenris had his head curled into the crook of Hawke’s neck, and Hawke’s lips were pressed indefinitely to Fenris’ temple. Hawke stretched, feeling his legs begin to cramp.

“Honestly, I expected you to be way higher than this.”

Fenris snorted and propped his chin up on Hawke’s chest.

“This wasn’t very strong stuff.” he said, “I’ve had weed once which made me forget my name.”

“Once I was drunk and I fell in a swimming pool.” Hawke countered.

Fenris grinned and pulled himself up, straddling Hawke’s thigh.

“That’s standard,” he said, “I got high _in_  a swimming pool and then couldn’t figure out how to use the ladder to get out.”

Hawke laughed loudly, running a hand through his beard to think of his worst drunken escapades.

“I fell asleep on Anders’ kitchen floor after drinking too much scotch and his cat knocked a candle off the table and set my shirt on fire.”

“I was trying to light another spliff and I realised too late that I hadn’t even rolled one and I just burnt my lip on the lighter.”

“I drunk dialled my mum and told her I thought I was dying.”

“I sat down to watch TV for about twenty minutes before I realised I hadn’t turned it on.”

Hawke snort laughed at that one, and leant his head down onto the rug,

“How high _were_ you?”

Fenris shrugged nonchalantly, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. He crawled off of Hawke, hoisting his leg up so that he could wander to the window and prop it open. He wafted the smoke out with his hands and turned to Hawke again,

“Do you have any air freshener?”

Dazed, Hawke nodded and stood up,

“There’s some in the kitchen, I’ll get it.”

“Make sure you close the door.”

 _Lilac Breeze_ was an air freshener Hawke had only used once because, despite its pretty purple packaging, it smelt like a forest nymph’s morning breath. He held his nose as he sprayed it around, hoping it would mask the scent of weed and sweaty make outs. Fenris glanced at the old clock on the wall.

“We should probably wait an hour or so before letting Dog in.”

Hawke nodded, gagging at the combining smells. The window was open though, likely enough the fresh air would do the living room some good.

“How long does a high last?” Hawke asked curiously, watching as Fenris fanned the last of the smoke away.

“It really depends on the kind of high.” Fenris leant against the wall, his head tipped towards the open window, “I either space out or get mellow, like now – when I’m mellow it doesn’t take long for me to come down, and I can function as I usually would.”

Hours ticked on, and Fenris continued to walk and talk as though nothing had happened, but with a serene smile stretched in dry lines across his face. Dog was let back into the living room, and he sneezed at the smell of _Lilac Breeze_ , which Hawke had promptly shoved into a cupboard under the kitchen sink out of fear of ever having to use it again. It was a night like any other, except when Fenris made his way around the house he’d pause to smile, run a hand along Hawke’s back or arm, press a kiss to the curve of his cheek bone.

His heart beat through his chest all evening, and threatened to burst as he lay down to bed with a clouded conscious.

He returned from work the next day with hands cracked with soil. He smelt of pine and earth and drifted into the front hallway like a snatch of breeze through the lumberyard. Dog barked maniacally from the kitchen, and Hawke stripped off his heavy coat and dropped to his knees to run his hands over Dog’s floppy ears.

“Hello you…” Hawke rubbed his forehead against Dog’s snout, scrunching up his face like he’d eaten a sour lemon, “Are you happy to see me? Do you want to go for a walk? Walkies?”

Though just a stump, Dog’s tail made a noise like thunder when he thumped it mercilessly against the creaking kitchen floorboards.

“Walkies!” Hawke repeated with a grin, like he was teaching a baby its first word. He dragged himself to his feet, and leapt up the stairs in work boots still caked in mud and pine needles. He rapped his knuckles against Fenris’ door before he went to the bathroom.

“Come in.”

“Evening.” Hawke said when he leant his head through the door, Fenris waved meekly from his desk, where a huge box of charcoals was slotted perfectly into place against a small canvas and the wall. “I was going to take Dog out for a walk, wondered if you wanted to come?”

Fenris leant back against his chair, inspected the black dust on his fingers and the bare few lines he had begun to ease onto the canvas. He nodded eventually, rising from the chair and announcing,

“I’ve been working all day, I should stretch my legs.” he glanced at his own hands, and then to Hawke’s, “You’re very muddy.”

“Planting day.” Hawke explained, examining how the soil clumped between the Vs of his fingers and stretched in long black sweeps over his palms, “Once or twice a month we plant a load of saplings in place of the trees we cut down – we kind of need a good system going on if we want the place to stay up and running.”

Fenris nodded, and waited patiently as Hawke turned on his heel to wash his hands in the bathroom – opposite the hall to Fenris’ room. He left the sink a dull brown, and when Fenris washed just the tips of his fingers the centre bloomed out in a wide flower petal of peach and black.

“Who paints a sink peach.” Hawke muttered to himself as Fenris dried his hands off.

“The bath is peach too.” Fenris aimed a thumb over his shoulder and followed Hawke down the stairs. Dog was lying on his back when Hawke grabbed his coat from the kitchen.

“C’mon, get up, walk time.” Hawke urged and nudged Dog with the heel of his boot. Fenris laughed as he tugged on his own shoes and coat, slipping his hand into his pocket for the spare key that Hawke decided it was a miracle he’d found last week at the bottom of his ‘miscellaneous junk drawer’.

“Where were you thinking of taking him?”

Hawke roused Dog from the kitchen floor, and herded him towards the front door with a twist to the edge of his lips.

“One of those weird places I told you about,” Hawke jangled his keys before he shoved them into the door, showing the slim pocket torch that was attached to his key ring, “A back road that goes through the woods, weird and foggy and dark. It’s completely safe to walk there though – Varric and I go all the time because it’s actually a short cut round to the back of town where there’s this really cheap off license with _great_ whisky – “

“You’re rambling, Hawke.” they clattered down the front steps and across the pavement, pausing only when Hawke turned back in realisation to lock the door behind him.

“Yeah, well, it’s really dark and foggy down there, and it seems like the perfect set for a horror movie,” Hawke spun his key ring around his index finger like a toy, “But it’s not dangerous, just a bit creepy – oi, Dog, no!”

The drooping of Dog’s tail as he slunk away from the garden gnome he’d been sniffing at could have equated perfectly to a frown, and he returned obediently to Hawke’s heel as they rounded the curb towards Pine Tree Tunnel.

“Where do we walk from here?” Fenris cast his gaze towards the route through Pine Tree Tunnel, gritting his teeth against the cold.

“Well town is that way,” Hawke illustrated his words with a stiff point to the main road through Pine Tree Tunnel, “And the ditch is, y’know, just further on from that.” another finger, this time jabbed in the opposite direction, “So this time you keep going forward. So if you were driving, instead of turning right into the cul-de-sac you’d just keep straight until you see this little off-shoot road going to the left.”

Fenris quickened his step a little to keep up with Hawke, whose long legs were no match for Fenris’ smaller frame.

“How intricate _is_ this town?” he muttered tersely, stuffing his hands into his pockets and bringing his neck back against the felt of his duffel coat’s collar.

“Too intricate,” Hawke huffed a laugh and watched his breath float away like smoke in front of him, “I got lost driving home once. But only because I was really tired and probably should not have been driving in my state.”

“The hairy toddler strikes again.” Fenris said nonchalantly through chattering teeth, and Hawke couldn’t help but let his laugh echo through the cold, still air.

The walk was pleasant. Companionable silence and a sluggish head went well together, and Hawke found himself trudging slowly through the leaf litter on the road with a steady rhythm in his chest and peaceful smile on his face. Dog waddled along like a sausage with legs, and Fenris’ tentative footsteps hissed and crackled over the gravel and leaves. He didn’t know how long they’d been walking for when they reached the road that meandered away to the left, but the sky was a dusky blue, and he could see the glowing streaks of yellow and orange that the sun threw out across the depleting clouds.

“Isn’t there an artsy word for that?” Hawke nodded towards the low gap in the trees where the sun could be seen dipping beneath the horizon.

“The Golden Hour.” Fenris nodded, “More of a photography thing actually – “

“Don’t you dabble in photography though?”

“A little.” Fenris smoothed his knuckle against his lower lip thoughtfully, “It’s the period of time where lighting is redder and softer. Very good conditions for taking photos. It’s known as the magic hour in cinematography.”

“What about happy hour?” Hawke began to follow Dog where he’d ran ahead down the off-shoot. He turned around, walking backwards, so he could face Fenris whilst they talked. “When all the photographers and artists get hammered before they get back to work.”

Fenris chuckled, lowering his gaze fondly at Hawke.

“If only.”

“I mean,” Hawke tilted his head as Fenris caught up, spinning back around so he didn’t just look like an idiot walking backwards, “Like I said, there’s an off-license at the end of this road – Dog, come back! – we can always pick something up.”

“Hawke, there is nothing sadder than being drunk on a Tuesday night.” Fenris held out his hand as Dog trotted back, head-butting the outstretched palm affectionately.

“Says the man who used to get drunk nightly.”

Fenris shrugged, an uncomfortable smile picking up the corners of what could have been a turgid frown.

“I suppose we could get _something_.”

“Attaboy.”

Around ten minutes later the fog rolled in.

“Here we go!” Hawke threw his hands up and lunged forward into the gathering fog, thick white clouds engulfing his legs until he looked like a floating torso, “Here’s nightmare material.”

“I can barely see anything.” Fenris blinked rapidly, rubbing at his eyes as he attempted to follow Hawke without falling over. He squinted as he pulled his hands away, one eye twitching compulsively, “Ah, damn, I dislodged a contact…ouch.”

“Do you need help?” Hawke dropped his arms quickly, stumbled over to where Fenris stood deathly still and blinked against his watery eye. He touched his temple gently, his other hand hovering and worrying over Fenris’ shoulder. “Is it alright?”

Fenris, nodding, gently slipped his finger over the glistening surface of his eye, peeling the contact away.

“…Damn.” he hissed, blinking away the sheen of tears that had begun to gather on his waterline, “Dropped it…”

“Can you see okay?” Hawke asked, concern heavy in his tone. He could hear Dog scratching the ground impatiently behind him, but ignored it.

“I might need some help – “ Fenris pressed a hand to his forehead, taking a sharp breath in, “ _Ow_.”

“What – What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I get headaches when I don’t wear my contacts…I guess it’s the same for one.”

Hawke waited, standing still in the gathering fog as Fenris rubbed at his eyes and blinked in his surroundings. He squinted and curled his lip, looking up at Hawke who was wringing his hands tight enough to turn the palms of his hands red.

“Do you need me to guide you…?” Hawke held his hand out hesitantly, feeling the anxiety rise to surface in his voice.

“I…” Fenris looked at Hawke’s hand as if he’d never seen one before, “Yes, thank you, Hawke.”

Fenris lay his hand in Hawke’s, but they didn’t move. They maintained hindered eye contact – Fenris’ left eye still twitching sporadically – and Hawke felt that his teeth would puncture his cheek if he chewed it any further.

“We can’t be like this every time there’s less than a foot between us.” Hawke said eventually, trying to laugh through the stammer in his words.

Fenris bowed his head, laughing against his collar.

“You’re right.” he said, tilting his head in a way so akin to Dog asking for food it was endearing, “We’re running in circles around each other.”

Hawke heaved a sigh, and squeezed Fenris’ hand in his own, “Maybe we should just be honest with each other.”

“Should we?” Fenris smirked.

“Yes,” Hawke leant his head forward, the lift of his eyebrow definitely not matching the way his stomach flipped over when he could feel Fenris’ breath on his cheeks, “I’ll go first: you’re really hot and I think I _really_ like you and I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“You’re a handsome man and I really like you too, Hawke.” Fenris laughed, and lay his free hand against Hawke’s shoulder, “Even if you’re blurry right now.”

It wasn’t clear when they went from laughing to kissing, but Hawke head leant down, and Fenris had leant up, and suddenly their lips were pressed together and everything was perfect. Hawke found he was still grinning into the kiss, and Fenris’ hand had travelled up to his jaw, fingers brushing gently against the downy hair on his cheeks.

The tiniest of breaths whispered between them as they pulled away, and the feeling of Fenris burying his head against Hawke’s chest was one that he wanted to have ingrained into his memory.

They walked through the fog hand in hand, Dog paws pattering against the damp ground up ahead.

Eventually, the trees fell away, and road signs and telephone poles appeared through the fog. When it thinned, Hawke could see the familiar yellow lights of the off-license glaring at him like cat’s eyes. A ramshackle street of old council houses and black krummholz lay behind the off-license, grey and wilted like a piece of stripped masking tape. Dog lay beside the bike stand outside the shop, putting his head on his paws as the automatic door creaked open.

The inside of the off-license hummed with the sounds of old refrigerators and fizzing strip lights, and Hawke kept a firm hold and Fenris’ hands as they trailed around the store – grabbing a bottle of whisky and a packet of beef jerky. The old woman at the checkout looked ready to fall asleep, and Hawke spoke quietly to her as she rung up their stuff and sniffed nonchalantly at the CCTV screens perched precariously behind the counter.

Hawke was ready to crack the whisky open and drink till midnight by the time he got home, but Fenris patted him on the wrist with a knowing look.

“Do you really want to be hungover on a work day?” he said.

“My legs are tired and the fog made my socks damp and this is _really_ good whisky, Fenris.”

Fenris shook his head, but he smiled, and rested his elbow softly against the counter. Dog barked softly from the doorway, making Hawke turn his head to shoo him.

“Alright. Only a few though, no getting drunk.” he rubbed at his contactless eye and sniffed, “Well – I can get drunk. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

“I hardly see how that’s fair.”

“Life isn’t.”

Pressing a swift kiss to Hawke’s cheek, Fenris shrugged off his coat and disappeared upstairs.

Hawke retired to the living room with a small glass of golden whisky propped between his fingers. He held it up to the light, and watched the way it reflected onto the brown walls, casting mellow highlights over the room.

Fenris reappeared with a pair of wide framed glasses propped on his nose, a grey blanket bunched around his shoulders.

Hawke poured him a drink, and he took it with a meek thank you. He was smiling when he held the glass to his lips, and the whisky warmed Hawke’s stomach like firelight.

Everything was still, and Hawke felt calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i reread last chapter the other day and realised there were SO MANY typos. so yeah ssssssorry about that


	10. crown

“Hawke owes me a tequila!” Isabela’s screeching could be heard over the Friday night rabble of the Hanged Man, and she banged the table with her fists so hard Merrill’s glass almost fell over. “I beat him skipping pebbles and now he _has_ to buy me one.”

“You didn’t _really_ skip six though, did you,” Hawke glared at her, pointing a menu stand accusingly, “I’m pretty sure you threw when I wasn’t looking.”

“Should’ve paid more attention then.” she stuck her tongue out from between perfectly lined lips and tapped impatiently at the table with ringed fingers, “C’mon then! Tequila!!”

Standing begrudgingly from the table, Hawke made his way to the bar where Corff was busily tending to the orders of a noisy backpacker group of American tourists – God knows why they’d dragged their worn out hiking boots to Kirkwall of all places. The soles of those things probably had dirt from Stonehenge and grit from London square and here they were traipsing through the damp back roads and crumbling asphalt of autumn struck British suburbia. Hawke snorted, leant back on the bar, only half using a stool with a wobbly leg to keep himself upright. He watched the table intently, and felt the tug of a smile on his lips.

Isabela was frantically introducing Anders and Fenris, who levelled each other passive, unimpressed stares and stiff upper lips. Merrill had started learning how to read tarots earlier that week, and was reading Varric’s cards whilst trying to convince Aveline that it wasn’t _complete_ nonsense. The shadeless light bulb that hung above the table glazed them in harsh yellow, and they were thrown into dark shadows and intense light all at once.

Corff, finally free from the wrath of six mismatched accents and unwashed khaki, took the table’s orders from Hawke, and raised his eyebrows when Hawke requested straight tequila. They hardly ever broke out their expensive, surprisingly pleasant hard liquor, and even Nora looked surprised when he yelled for her to get it out from the fridge.

“Take the whole bottle.” Corff said, “We’ll never sell it again otherwise.”

Isabela looked like she’d explode when Hawke placed the entire bottle in front of her, and she clutched it her chest with a wicked grin and fiery eyes.

“Twenty six quid I just spent on you.” Hawke grumbled as Nora circled the table and placed everyone’s drinks down. “You better be grateful.”

“I am, Hawkey, love you.” Isabela simpered as she pulled the cork from the bottle with alarming strength, “Should I drink this straight from the bottle?”

“No.” Aveline deadpanned.

“Yes.” Fenris raised his own glass and Isabela thrust the entire god damn bottle above her head like a flare.

“Learning from the master.” she whispered as she took a swig and didn’t even flinch. Hawke was reminded why he both feared and respected this woman.

Varric laughed, swiping the foam off the top of his beer with a thick index finger. Tilting his head to Isabela he said,

“Why don’t you have Daisy read your tarot, Bela?” he smiled at Merrill’s small, happy gasp from the corner, “We’re having fun over here.”

“Varric picked the hermit, temperance and the magician.” Merrill held up three cards with intricate ink looping over them. The light reflected harshly over the bright red and yellow palettes, “I’m not…completely sure what that means, because I’m still learning, you see! But it’s something about…being a leader or, um, acceptance, I think. I’m not sure.”

“I’m sure you’ll be an expert soon enough, kitten.” Isabela smiled over the lip of her bottle. Merrill grinned, cheeks glowing, and shuffled her cards back together with a giggle.

“Careful with those, you don’t want to lose them.” Varric patted her shoulder gently, and Merrill nodded in agreement before putting the cards away. “So anyway!” he cleared his throat and leant forward, shirt collar dipping down to give Hawke a view of wiry, golden chest hair that made him slightly jealous. “Hawke, Fenris: first two weeks of life together – how’s that going?”

“I can hear him snoring from my room.” Fenris took a deep mouthful of wine, and Isabela snort laughed loudly.

“At least I _sleep_.” Hawke countered with a chuckle, and Fenris just shrugged and took another unapologetic mouthful.

“Fenny has always been a night owl.” Isabela said, cheek in her hand, “Remember when you stayed up all night and I thought you were working on an exam piece but you were just watching videos of dogs falling over?”

“We don’t talk about that.” he said, and the table shared a quiet laugh.

“I have to say,” Anders winced, carefully pinching the neck of his craft beer bottle, “I was worried about Hawke having an utter stranger move in but…obviously you’re doing better than expected.”

“Yeah!” Hawke slung an arm over the back of Anders’ chair, “We get along really well, actually. Dog likes him a lot.”

Isabela threw a sly glance at Anders, whose bunched shoulders and sleepy gaze from Hawke’s outstretched arm were giving away everything that everyone already knew. She rested her teeth on her bottle,

“Earning Dog’s affection is a deal maker for Hawke.” she said.

“This is true.”

“Well it’s hard not to show affection to an animal that will shove its entire weight on you if you don’t stroke at every half an hour.” Fenris crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows at Isabela, “Besides, it’s not as if _you’re_ any good with animals. Remember Leo?”

Isabela frowned and threw a napkin at Fenris. It fell short and landed on Hawke’s lap.

“Who’s Leo?” Aveline laced her fingers together and leant her chin on them. Isabela looked reluctant to answer; Fenris took great pleasure in doing so.

“Leonardo DiCaprio was Isabela’s goldfish.” he said, causing Merrill to giggle shrilly and Anders to press his lips together to stop himself from laughing, “He died after two months.”

“Of all actors, why Leonardo DiCaprio?” Varric grinned and Isabela pouted at him – looking surprisingly like a fish herself as she widened her eyes.

“Well, the girl in the dorm down from mine had a cat…” she cracked a grin, and her laugh poured unexpectedly out. She buried her face in her hands, “This really cute girl had a cat named Oscar and I thought if I named my goldfish Leonardo DiCaprio she would think I was funny and hang out with me.”

No one on the table had a straight face.

“That’s past _my_ levels of awkward flirting, Isabela.” Hawke had been in the middle of a mouthful of beer when Isabela had revealed her secret, and now he was wiping his spit shamefully from the table with napkin that she’d thrown at him.

“This was during Isabela’s existential crisis phase.” Fenris chuckled against his hand, “Well, _our_ existential crisis period – we were both kind of grumpy and destitute for a few months.”

“Now only Fenris is grumpy and destitute.”

“Watch it.”

“Sorry, lovey.”

At around ten Varric pulled out a worn pack of cards from his jacket pocket, pulling the softened tab at the top and letting the cards spill out onto the table. They lay for a good fifteen minutes untouched whilst the table squabbled over what they should play, and then everyone decided they weren’t sober enough to play a fair game. Instead Merrill played snap with Isabela across the table, and Hawke adjudicated with a sharp eye – the sharpest of everyone’s, in fact, considering he was the designated driver tonight and had only had two small glasses of beer.

“Snap!” Isabela yelled.

“No! That was clubs, not spades.” Hawke snatched the card Isabela had triumphantly slapped her palm upon, held it up to the light for proof, “You’re a heathen.” he scolded, only half joking.

“Does that mean I win?” Merrill asked, on her third glass of vodka and coke. She’d been entirely unsure about it at the beginning of the night, but Isabela and Anders had assured her it tasted like perfection in a glass and now she wouldn’t put the damn thing down. “I’m sure the rules say that if one person shouts snap when it isn’t a snap that means they lose…”

“The idea that there may or may not be an official snap rulebook somewhere is beyond comprehension.” Anders’ was drunk enough by now that he’d moved on from soft, fruity craft beers to the overly sweet knock off cocktails that the Hanged Man only served on weekends. He was resting his chin in an empty martini glass.

“Let me Google it,” Varric was the ever vigilant phone master, and he tapped away at the screen of his too large smart phone – the one with the cracked orange case – like he was on a very important business trip, and not searching up the rules of snap. “Oh my god.”

Fenris leant over Varric’s shoulder to read what was on the screen, and even he cracked a grin.

“Snap is suitable for two to six players,” he read, “More than six may become _unwieldy_.”

“How can a game of _snap_ be unwieldy?” Varric guffawed, letting his head hang over the back of his chair, “Oh damn, little Timmy’s pretending to have all clubs again, what a tyke! We might need to ban him from this game, Vanessa, lest he turn to gambling and become a lying, indebted layabout.”

“I like that you’ve invented an entire cast for the uncontrollable game of snap,” Hawke said, “Little Timmy sure sounds like a handful, but Vanessa knows what she’s doing.”

“Hawkey, darling,” Isabela crooned as she leant excessively into his shoulder, “You named a fake deer head Bradley and a fake bear rug Steven, you really can’t say much.”

Aveline, diverting her attention from ensuring Anders didn’t smash any of the glasses that he’d amassed around his sharp elbows, raised an eyebrow and said, “Varric named a guitar.”

Simultaneously Isabela and Varric belted out, “ _Bianca is a lady_.” and Aveline leant back into her seat as if their voices had somehow pushed her.

“Wait,” Fenris tilted his head back, pinching the stem of his glass, “I don’t follow – you have a guitar called Bianca?”

“Had her for years.” Varric said fondly, resting his cheek against his palm. Hawke recognised his wistful ‘ _time for an anecdote_ ’ face and prepared for the onslaught of pretentious drivel, “Picked her up at a flea market in Amsterdam and she’s never left me since.”

“But…you named it?” Fenris tipped back the last of his wine incredulously, and nodded thanks to Isabela who waved Nora over for a top up.

“ _Her_.” Hawke corrected, just because Varric would expect him to.

“Fine,” he watched the wine trickle down the curved surface of his newly filled glass, “ _Her_.”

Varric crossed his arms with a self-assured smirk, and tilted his head as if trying to talk to Fenris from half away across the room, even if he was sat directly to his right.

“We’re all passionate about things, right?” he said, and everyone on the table nodded. They’d all heard this one before, “I’m passionate about storytelling, and you can do that in a lot of ways. You can write – which is my forte, may I add – or you can paint – like you do for example – or you can make music – which I also do.” he imitated plucking the strings of a guitar, and grinned at Fenris, “Sometimes you feel passionately enough about something that it can take you back to a better place, a better time. It can remind you of smells and sights and sounds – sometimes it can remind you of people. Now, the story of how Bianca got her name is a long one, and not one I’ll tell you all tonight, but rest assured: nothing – not even naming your guitar – is pointless when there’s passion behind it.”

Isabela and Hawke’s enthusiastic applause probably wasn’t necessary, but it took away the sad weight in Varric’s voice when they gave him a reason to bow.

“So there’s a conversation starter,” he silenced the clapping with a wave of his hand, and Isabela bit back a grin before taking another charred shot. “Your art, Fenris. Where’s that passion come from?”

With delayed reaction Fenris took a sip of his wine, and drew the knuckles of his hand over his mouth.

“Repressed emotions.” he said simply, “Things I haven’t said and probably never will.”

Anders snorted, muttered “ _Pretentious bull –_ “ into the bottom of his glass, where no one but Hawke and the remnants of a Blood Mary were listening. Hawke tapped his thigh disapprovingly. He just grunted.

“See.” Varric pressed his finger against the flared base of Fenris’ wine glass, “We’re not so different.”

“Just because we’re both artists in our own right doesn’t mean we’re the same.” it was almost tangible how fast Fenris’ walls were flying up: his hunched shoulders, dry scowl, anchoring hand clutched to his wine so if worst came to worst he could just get wasted and forget everything. Hawke wanted to tell Varric to stop talking.

“Hey now, I never said we were,” Varric raised his hands defensively, “I was just insinuating that you may have more in common with us than you think.”

“Yeah,” Anders lifted his head, an evident slur licking at his words which made Hawke subconsciously grab the hem of his shirt. Anders didn’t react, “Loosen up a bit.”

Fenris’ eyes had always looked like they could light fires, but when Anders would most likely be the kindling for said fire, and Fenris was scowling like he planned on standing up and _leaving,_ everyone knew an intervention was needed.

“Oh, Fenris doesn’t need to loosen up,” Isabela draped her arm over his lanky shoulders, curling into his side, “Sure, he can be a little distant, but he can be fun too... _sometimes_.”

Fenris downed his wine, and a few faces fell in horror at the fact that the glass had been almost full and he finished it one swig. Grimacing, Isabela tried to catch herself,

“Like, this one time, we were on a college trip to Edinburgh because the Scottish National Gallery is there,” Isabela wound a lock of her hair around her finger, pushing her forehead insistently against Fenris’ shoulder, “And we went to this club on our last night there – just because, y’know, get drunk while you can – and this random guy with pretty eyes started flirting with Fenris – “

“If this story is supposed to be about me loosening up then I should probably remind you that the guy who flirted with me was on a vow of chastity so it really went nowhere.” Fenris leant, resigned against the back of his chair, and let Isabela unabashedly cuddle into his side.

“But he was cute and had a hot accent.” she pouted, and Fenris patted her head.

“Okay,” Hawke stood with a laugh, “We’ve reached the cuddling level of drunkenness and therefore I think it’s time to go home.”

Nodding, Aveline shifted her chair away from the table and slung her coat over her arm, just barely avoiding a cross looking woman with dark hair who had stormed past the table with her nose buried in the martini glass she had tipped back against her face.

“Donnic will be wanting me back.” she said, watching as Merrill rifled through her bag for her purse, “He’s still ill.”

“Still?” Hawke, fished his wallet from his back pocket, flicked a few notes onto the table and zipped it back up again. He thumbed the worn leather absent mindedly.

“The man has the immune system of a new born baby.”

Isabela, Anders and Merrill crushed themselves into the back of Hawke’s car, rolling down the back windows and drunkenly waving good bye to Aveline and Varric who were waiting patiently at the bus stop on the other side of the street. At least four times Hawke checked to see if they were all wearing their seatbelts, and when he was too busy checking the road as he pulled out, he asked Fenris to check for him.

“Are you all wearing your seat belts?” Fenris deadpanned, not even bothering to lean over his seat as he stared intently at the blue glow of his phone screen.

“Yes!!” Isabela and Merrill said together. A soft snore came from Anders’ side of the car, follow by the soft click of Isabela leaning over him and jamming in his seatbelt.

“We’re not eight, Hawke, we know to put our damn seatbelts on.” Isabela giggled, leaning between the two front seats. Her hands hovered for a second, one ghosting over the dip in Hawke’s shoulder, and the other rubbing at loose strands of Fenris’ hoary hair.

“Safety first.” Hawke breathed hard through his nose, swatting Isabela back to the dark back seat that smelt like take away chips and the lumberyard.

Merrill was the first to be dropped home, then Isabela, and after Anders was roused from where he lay drooling against the door, only Hawke and Fenris remained in the car which crawled at a sedate pace homebound.

As dark as the house was when the returned, it instilled within Hawke a sluggish desire for sleep, and as he leant back against the door with heavy eyes and the remnants of his one glass of beer lingering on his tongue, he wished the hard oak wood was his soft – if lumpy – bed.

“Tired?” Fenris asked fondly, shucking off his coat and scarf. Hawke attempted a smile, and swiped a hand over his eyes.

“Yeah…Isabela wears me out I think.”

Laughing, Fenris toed his shoes off and set them beside the front door, careful not to tread on Hawke’s toes. He paused, a gentle smile tugging unsurely at the dark line of his lips.

“Can I kiss you?” Hawke chanced, his fingers curling against the wood at his back. Fenris paused, but nodded, his smile widening as he smoothed a hand over Hawke’s cheek and dragged him in languidly.

Hawke went to sleep with the taste of bitter wine lingering on his lips, the feeling of smoke tendril hands ghosting at his jaw and the feeling of a fluttering chest against his own. He felt like drowning in warmth, and his bed obliged, coating him in a sleep that pulled him under for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter this week for some #sqaud bonding.


End file.
